He closes the last inch of space, cups my face with both hands—gentle, careful, as though I might vanish if he grips too hard—and kisses me.
It’s slow at first. Careful. The kind of kiss that saysI’m sorryandI missed youandthank you for coming backall at once. His lips are warm, familiar, tasting faintly of coffee and the mint he chewed on the walk over. I sigh into it, hands sliding up to fist in his shirt, pulling him closer until our bodies line up.
The kiss deepens gradually. Tongues touch, retreat, touch again. He makes a low sound in the back of his throat when I nip his bottom lip—half groan, half surrender—and his hands slide down to my waist, thumbs stroking the strip of skin where my shirt has ridden up.
He breaks the kiss like it hurts him to do it, breath catching against my lips.
“Wait,” he murmurs, his forehead pressing to mine. “This isn’t why I invited you back to my place.”
I blink, still a little dizzy from how soft andfullthat kiss felt. “No?”
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his hands still resting at my hips. “I meant it when I said I wanted a second chance. I don’t want this to be a quick slide back into something physical just because it’s easy.”
I study him, eyes tracing the line of his jaw, the furrow in his brow.
“Easy?” I echo, tilting my head. “Silas…nothing about you has ever been easy.”
His mouth twitches at that.
“I’m not saying we don’t get there,” he says. “Just…not yet. Not like this.”
I let that sit for a second. Let it settle in the space between us.
Then I lean in, mouth brushing his again in the faintest, laziest kiss I can manage. “I didn’t come here just for sex.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“Well,” I admit, “maybe like…twenty-five percent for sex. But mostly just to see if you still looked at me the way you used to.”
“And?”
“And you do,” I say softly. “But now I think you actually see me too.”
“So what now?” I ask.
Silas smiles, slow and warm, tugging me gently toward the couch. “Now we spend the day talking and catching up, watch a couple movies, you make fun of my picks, and we keep remembering how to do this the right way.”
I flop down next to him with a grin. “Guess I’ll stay... but only if you promise no weird indie documentaries about sad old wars.”
“No promises,” he says, pulling me close again, his arm sliding around my shoulders as though it belongs there.
I nestle into his side, already comfortable, already remembering how perfectly I fit against him. The couch cushions dip under our combined weight, and for a second, it’s just quiet—his heartbeat steady under my ear, the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchen, sunlight slanting through the blinds in lazy stripes across the floor.
Then he adds, low and teasing, “But if you hate the documentary, you can always distract me.”
I tilt my head up, catching the glint in his eye. My voice comes out playful, testing the waters. “Yes, Daddy.”
The words slip out easy, half-joking, half-serious. His whole body goes still beside me.
I grin, quick and bright, pulling back just enough to see his face. “Oh—too soon?”
Silas exhales roughly, as if the air’s been punched out of him. His eyes are dark, pupils blown, but there’s something softer underneath—relief, maybe, or recognition.
“I was trying to be good,” he says, voice gravel-rough. Then he leans in and kisses me again.
This one isn’t careful.
It’s hungry.
