“I’m not asking you to fix this,” he says. “I’m asking you to tell me what you need.”
My breath shakes out of me. “I need… time.”
His jaw tightens, but he nods. “Okay.”
I blink, thrown. “That’s it?”
“That’s what you asked for,” he says.
I stare at him like I’m searching for the catch.
His eyes don’t flinch. “You don’t have to earn patience from me.”
Something inside me twists hard. Because he’s right.
I’ve spent so long earning everything that I don’t know what to do with something freely offered.
My throat tightens. “You don’t understand.”
His gaze stays locked. “Then help me.”
The words snap something in me.
Not anger or heat. Just… the thin thread of control I’ve been holding all day.
I step close enough that I can smell him. Clean soap, cold air, with something warm under it. The familiar pull of a memory I never properly buried.
His eyes drop to my mouth.
My body leans forward like it’s finally done listening to my brain.
And then he’s moving too, slowly as if he doesn’t want to spook me. Like he’s giving me one more second to choose.
I don’t.
I kiss him.
It’s not soft or careful.
It’s the kind of kiss that’s been waiting years and doesn’t know how to pretend otherwise.
His hand comes up to my jaw, thumb pressing lightly under my ear, and the pressure sends a jolt straight through me.
I make a small sound, and he answers it by deepening the kiss, his mouth firm and controlled like he’s trying to keep himself in check while still taking exactly what he wants.
My fingers curl into the front of his shirt.
He shifts closer, and the edge of the car presses into my hip. I don’t care. His other hand slides to my waist, pulling me in until there’s no space left to argue with.
And my brain, traitor that it is, goes quiet.
For a few seconds, there’s nothing but his mouth, his hand at my jaw, the heat in my belly.
Then his lips drag to the corner of mine, and he breathes, “Sarah…”
My name in his voice does something reckless to me.
I kiss him again, harder.
