“I meant what I said,” I told him quietly. “About not giving her space in every thought.”
He nodded. “Good.”
“But that doesn’t mean she’s not there,” I added.
“She’s there,” he agreed. “She just doesn’t get to drive.”
A small breath of laughter escaped me. “You and your metaphors.”
He shrugged slightly. “You started it.”
The quiet stretched, but it wasn’t strained. It felt like the moment before a decision.
He shifted closer, slowly, like he was giving me every opportunity to stop him. His hand slid from mine to my waist, warm through the fabric of my shirt.
I could feel the heat of him even before he touched me fully. The space between us thinned until it barely existed at all.
And then he kissed me.
I kissed him back, but he pulled away.
“You’re still shaking,” he said softly.
“I am not.”
He arched a brow.
“Maybe a little,” I conceded.
His hand moved higher, brushing the side of my ribs, then up to cup my jaw gently, and he kissed me again.
His touch was careful, almost reverent, like he was memorizing the shape of my face.
“You don’t have to be brave in here,” he murmured.
The firelight flickered across his cheekbones, caught in the faint scar near his temple, and softened the intensity in his eyes into something warmer.
“You’re very distracting,” I whispered.
“That’s intentional.”
His mouth brushed mine, and the kiss deepened by degrees.
“I meant that, by the way.”
“Meant what?”
“About not losing you.” His eyes stayed fastened on mine as my pulse raced.
The words settled between us, heavier than the kiss had been.
I brushed my thumb along his jaw.
“You won’t,” I said softly.
He touched his knuckles against my cheek, and I smiled, reveling in his touch.
But that’s when I felt it.
