“Yes, you are,” he says, quiet. “And I’m not going to punish you for it.”
The burn in my throat is instantaneous; I want to say something cruel, something to make him sorry for seeing me, but I can’t think of a single line that’s mean enough to erase what he just said.
I push back from the table so fast my chair scrapes. “You don’t get to talk like that.”
He stands, too, but doesn’t block my escape. Just closes the space between us, slow and careful, like approaching a wild animal. His scent hits me before he does — soap, clean skin, and underneath, something darker, sweet and a little sharp.
“I’m not trying to scare you. Just… tell me what you need, Molly.”
My laugh is ugly, mirthless. “What I need? I need…” I trail off, because the truth is stuck behind my teeth.
He waits. His hands loose at his sides.
What I need is to stop feeling like every kindness is a trick. Every gentleness is a setup for a fall. I want to stop thinking of him as a threat, or a score to settle, or an empty seat at my table.
But mostly, I want to stop thinking.
I want to stop thinking, stop fearing, and just feel safe enough to love him all the time.
The words sit on the tip of my tongue, aching to jump through my lips.
His eyes meet mine, encouraging. “Yeah?”
I stare at him, anger and want and fear and love twisting together until I can’t tell them apart; until they are a knot wrapped around my heart, around my throat, choking me.
What I need is to stop feeling.
So I do the only thing that ever worked: I grab his shirt, yank him down, and kiss him hard — like it’s the only way I know how to speak.
His reaction is a shock. For half a second he freezes, and then his hands are on my hips, crushing me to him, kissing me back like he’s starving. I make a noise I hate, but he eats it, his mouth turning rough, hungry, desperate. I dig my hands into his hair, and he fists his fingers in my top, nearly pulling it off my shoulder.
We stumble backward, banging into the stove, then the counter. I hit the edge hard enough to leave a mark. He lifts me bodily, sets me on the countertop, and pushes between my legs, never breaking the kiss. My thighs clamp around his hips on instinct, my hands caught up in his hair, his jaw. The taste of wine and garlic swirls between us.
He breaks away just enough to gasp, “You sure?”
I glare at him, at the question, at the nerve of him to ask for consent when every cell in my body is already screaming yes. “If you stop, I’ll kill you.”
His mouth turns hungry instantly, kissing me back like I lit a fuse.
I make a sound I hate — soft, needy — and he growls against my lips, pulling me closer until my body fits to his like it belongs there.
His fingers dig in, steadying me, claiming me. And I know it the second it happens — this isn’t just making out; this isn’t just dinner; this isn’t just me repaying his kindness; and this sure as hell isn’t me escaping saying aloud those words I’m so scared to say; no matter what I tell myself, my heart and my body know the truth.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Evan
Molly kisses me like she’s on the verge of self-immolation, hungry and reckless, desperate to cauterize every wound and need in both of us with the destructive clarity of friction and heat. There’s no tenderness at first — she’s all sharp edges and challenge, her mouth pressed hard against mine as if we’re fighting for who gets to be the last one breathing. The taste of her is a wildfire: wine and smoke, something bracing that reminds me this is Molly, always barreling full speed toward danger even when the real threat is her own heart.
She bites my lower lip, then drags her tongue across it in a rough apology, and I can’t do anything but surge into her, hands at her hips, pulling her so tight against me it aches. I want her to feel how much I need this, need her. Her body slams into mine, her fingers scorched and greedy as they climb my spine, and I realize she’s trembling — not from fear, but from the effort of holding herself together. The tension in her runs all the way through me; I’m buzzing, alive, like my veins are full of gunpowder and if she lets go, I’ll explode.
I cup the back of her head, fisting my fingers in her hair, and kiss her deep enough to make my chest hurt. There’s no play here, no slow dance — just the abrupt collision of two people who’ve been circling this for so long they’re out of patience, out of excuses. This is exactly how I wanted it, the way she never lets herself be the first to break.
But then she does.
She makes a sound — low in her throat, half-moan, half-growl — and it’s so raw it slices through every defense I thought I had. It’s the sound of someone taking what they swore they’d never allow themselves, and it shames me for the lies I’m still holding in my mouth. She’s close enough now that if I whispered any of it — about June, about Midnight, about the ticking clock on everything — she’d hear, and maybe forgive, or maybe kill me on the spot. Either way, she’d know the truth.
She kisses me harder, and now her hands are under my shirt, nails scraping at my back, and I’m losing track of what’s pain and what’s pleasure. I drag my tongue over her teeth, wanting her to taste the honesty I’m aching to say out loud.
