He closes the dishwasher with a soft click and leans back against the counter, folding his arms, giving me space instead of taking it up. Always noticing. Always choosing restraint.
“It looks like Lucy knowing she’s not going anywhere,” he continues. “It looks like you finishing what you started when you decided not to settle for a life that is so far beneath you it’s neighbors with Hell. It looks like me learning how to see thatwhat I want, and what is clearly destined to be mine, isn’t across the Atlantic.”
I swallow. “Destined to be yours?”
He nods once, “Just like I am destined to belong to you.”
I try to think of a way to argue that, but I want to believe it’s true, just as he seems to.
“And arguments,” he says, because of course he does. “But fair ones. Ones that end with understanding, not exits.” A small smile tugs at his mouth. “And dinners like tonight, even if they’re messy. Especially if they’re messy.”
I look down at my hands, still damp, still smelling faintly of soap and rice and something warmer underneath it all.
“That sounds… possible,” I say, surprised by how much I mean it.
He steps closer, not crowding me, just enough that I can feel the heat of him, the certainty. “It is,” he says. “With you. With me. With Lucy.”
He holds out his hand, expecting me to take it, and so I do.
He pulls me into a hug, a freaking hug, holding me there until I feel… tired, and ready to turn off all the questions I have and sleep.
I exhale, slow and careful. “Extraordinary,” I whisper, “might just be surviving the day and wanting to do it again tomorrow.”
He steps back just a fraction and smiles down at me softly, eyes moving from my eyes to my lips. “It’s a win.”
The words are barely out of his mouth when the space between us disappears.
I don’t remember deciding to move, only that his hand is still in mine and then it isn’t, because it’s sliding to my waist instead, fingers firm, hands lightly calloused, strong and anchoring. My back hits the counter with a soft thud, not startled, just … caught. He pauses there for half a heartbeat, searching my face, like consent is something he needs,just like that night.
I lift my chin and that’s all it takes.
His mouth finds mine with a hunger that feels like before, like the restraint he’s held is snapping, like days of careful distance finally giving way. It’s not gentle, not rushed, just deep and measured, his lips moving against mine like he’s trying to say everything he’s been holding back —we both have— without words. I fist my hands into his shirt, dragging him closer, feeling the heat of him, the size and power beneath his clothes.
He groans softly into my mouth, the sound low and wrecked, sending a shock straight through me.
“Jesus,” he murmurs against my lips, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.
I kiss him again, harder this time, all teeth, tongues, breath and need. His hands slide up my sides, thumbs pressing just under my ribs like he’s grounding himself. He kisses like he means it. Like this isn’t just want, it’s purpose.
My knees weaken and he feels it instantly, crowding in, bracing me with his body, his thigh nudging between mine. The counter digs into my lower back, the contrast sharp but perfect. His mouth trails from mine to my jaw, to the sensitive place just below my ear, and I gasp despite trying to hold it back.
“Hildy,” he breathes, and the way he says my name, like a promise and a warning all at once, makes my pulse trip.
I tug him back up, needing his mouth again, needing the kiss to stay front and center, because if he keeps discovering new places like that, I’m not sure I’ll stay upright. He smiles against my lips, like he knows exactly what he’s doing, like he’s enjoying the way I’m unraveling, until he realizes so is he.
His lips crash into mine, this kiss, hungry and insistent. His hands grip my waist firmly, pulling me against him while my hands work their way through his hair and down his back to grasp at his shirt.
Our bodies sway together as he lifts me onto the countertop, my legs wrap around his waist, heals digging into his firm ass pulling him closer. He nips at my lip before kissing a trail down my jawline and along my neck again.
He slides one hand up under my shirt, fingers dancing along my ribs before taking hold of my breast and tweaking the nipple between his fingers until I gasp from the sensation. As our mouths continue exploring each other's taste and warmth, he guides one of my hands to his belt, encouraging me to unbuckle it and free his erection.
I do as he guides me, and as I wrap my fingers around his throbbing member, a soft groan escapes his lips. He starts to undress me slowly, shedding my shirt and bra before slowly dipping his hand inside my waistband. His fingertips trace the lace edge of my panties as he meets my gaze, silently asking for permission. I nod and arch my hips up, allowing him remove the rest of my clothes, expose my wet heat to him.
He runs a finger between my slick folds before pressing it into me with a gentle but urgent need while our mouths continue their hungry exploration. As I begin to rock against his hand, he suddenly withdraws and tugs down his boxers.
He positions himself at my entrance, teasing me with the head of his cock. There’s a beat — a pause, a question. “Do I need a condom?” he asks, his voice rough around the edges, all low tension and restraint.
My mind is already gone, lost in the sharp ache of wanting him, but I still find the air to answer, “No,” because if it was ever going to matter, it would have been a different night, a different story.
