“It’s the truth.” He wipes his hands on a napkin, then turns to face me fully. “You’re brilliant and talented and the most frustratingly guarded person I’ve ever met. You’re also beautiful, but I figured you knew already.”
“Reece.”
“I’m not trying to overwhelm you. I’m trying to be honest.” His hand finds mine between us. “If it’s too much, tell me. I’ll back off. But don’t ask me to pretend I don’t see you, Ava, because I do. All of you.”
My throat tightens. No one has ever looked at me the way he’s looking at me right now, not with infatuation or lust, but with genuine seeing and understanding.
It’s terrifying.
“The other shoe is going to drop,” I say quietly. “This feeling, whatever this is, it’s temporary. It always is.”
“What if it’s not?”
“It will be. It has to be.”
“Why?”
“Because good things don’t last for me. They start perfect and beautiful, and then something shifts. Someone leaves or lies or decides I’m not worth the effort.” I pull my hand away, wrapping his jacket tighter around myself. “I’m not trying to be dramatic. It’s pattern recognition… data.”
Reece is quiet for a long moment. Then, “Who hurt you?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yeah, it does.” His voice is gentle. “Because whoever it was did a hell of a number on you, and I’d very much likenotto repeat their mistakes.”
I look at him, searching for signs of pity or impatience. There’s only curiosity and something that looks suspiciously close to care.
“College boyfriend,” I admit. “Baseball player, naturally. He was charming, attentive, and said all the right things. Then histeam started losing, and suddenly, I was the distraction. The reason he couldn’t focus. His coaches agreed, his teammates agreed, and he ghosted me halfway through senior year.”
“He’s an idiot.”
“He was practical. Athletes can’t afford distractions.”
“He was anidiot,” Reece repeats firmly. “And a coward. You’re not a distraction, Ava. You’re the thing keeping me sane right now.”
“You barely know me.”
“I know enough.” He shifts closer, and I don’t pull away. “I know you take your coffee with oat milk and exactly one sugar. I know you chew your bottom lip when you’re thinking. I know you keep everyone at arm’s length because you’re convinced they’ll leave eventually, so you’d rather control the exit.”
“Amateur psychology?”
“Accurate observation.”
“Same thing.”
“Not even close.” His hand cups my cheek, thumb brushing my jaw. “I’mnothim. I’mnotleaving because things get hard. And I’mnotletting you convince yourself this is temporary when it feels anything but.”
“You can’t know—”
“Watch me.”
Then he’s kissing me, soft, sure, and nothing rushed. It’s different from our first kiss. Less desperate, more intentional. His hand slides into my hair, angling my head, and I melt into him without thinking.
When we break apart, my heart is hammering, and my walls are crumbling faster than I can rebuild them.
“Still think the other shoe is going to drop?” he murmurs against my lips.
“Absolutely.”
