“Come on, I want to hear you admit you wanted me here.”
Heat floods my face. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You’re deflecting.” His hands find my hips, pulling me flush against him. “Tell me why I’m here, Ava.”
The challenge in his voice makes my pulse spike. He wants me to own this, claim it, no hiding behind maybes or casual arrangements.
“I wanted to see you,” I admit quietly. “I was lying in bed thinking about you, I couldn’t stop, and I decided waiting until tomorrow was stupid.”
“Keep going.”
“You’re enjoying this too much.”
“Absolutely.” His smile is pure arrogance. “But I also drove here at borderline illegal speeds because you texted. So, humor me.”
I take a breath. “I wanted you here because when I’m with you, everything feels… easier. Lighter. And tonight, after dinner and Lena’s post and the tattoo conversation, I realized I’m tired of pretending this is casual when it stopped being casual weeks ago.”
His expression softens. “Ava…”
“And I wanted to show you my apartment. My space. The place where I’m most myself.” I meet his eyes. “And maybe, if you were interested, I wanted to show you my bedroom.”
“Interested?” His voice drops an octave. “I’ve been thinking about your bedroom since the first time you shut me down in your studio.”
“That’s very presumptuous.”
“That’s very honest.”
He kisses me, and it’s different from every other kiss we’ve shared. More intense. More certain. His hands slide under my shirt, fingers splaying across my lower back, and I arch into him.
“Bedroom,” I breathe out against his mouth.
“Lead the way.”
I take his hand, pulling him down the short hallway. My heart is hammering so hard I’m surprised he can’t hear it.
This is happening.
We’re doing this.
Crossing a line we can’t uncross.
I push open my bedroom door, and Reece’s sharp intake of breath makes me smile.
“It’s very you,” he says.
The walls are covered in art. My designs, pieces from other artists I admire, and photographs I’ve taken. My bed is unmade because I was lying in it twenty minutes ago, deliberating whether to text him. There are books stacked on my nightstand, half-finished sketches on my desk, and string lights casting everything in warm, soft light.
“It’s messy,” I say.
“It’s perfect.” He pulls me close, hands framing my face. “You’re perfect.”
“I’m really not.”
“To me, you are.”
Then he’s kissing me again, walking me backward toward the bed. The back of my knees hit the mattress, and I fall, pulling him down with me. He catches himself on his forearms, hovering over me, eyes dark and intense.
“Tell me to stop, and I will,” he says.
