Kayley wraps her arms around herself and steps closer. “They’re watching.”
“We’ll watch back harder,” I promise. I lower the radio, keeping it clipped to my belt as I usher her gently back toward the couch. “Come here.”
She doesn’t resist. I sit down first, and she moves into the space beside me. Close. Pressed into my side like she needs the contact.
Maybe I do too.
“I hate that I brought this here,” she whispers.
“You didn’t. You broughtyourselfhere. You broughtAidanhere. That’s the part I care about.”
She turns her face toward mine, our noses almost touching. “You don’t even know me.”
I brush her hair back, fingers threading through the dark waves. “I know you kept a promise that broke your heart. I know youran when you could’ve frozen. I know you crossed two states and a snowstorm with nothing but a baby and a bag of hope.”
She exhales, shaky.
“And I know I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the second I opened that damn gate.”
Silence stretches.
She swallows. “I keep trying to tell myself this is just adrenaline.”
“Is it?”
“I don’t know,” she whispers. “Maybe. But when you touch me, I feel like I can breathe again.”
That’s all it takes.
I lean in and kiss her.
Slow at first—just a brush of lips. A test. She doesn’t pull away. She leans into it, and suddenly the kiss turns deeper, fuller, as if we’ve been waiting days, not hours, to close the space between us.
My hand cups the back of her neck, anchoring her as she presses closer. Her fingers dig into my shirt, twisting in the fabric like she needs something to hold onto.
She shifts into my lap, straddling me without hesitation. The soft cotton of her sleep leggings is the only barrier between us, and it does nothing to stop the rush of heat that floods my system when she settles against me.
I grip her hips, holding her steady. We break for breath, foreheads touching.
“I should stop,” I rasp, even though Idon’t want to.
“Then stop,” she whispers.
I stare at her, heart pounding. “I don’t want to.”
She kisses me again, and that’s all the answer I need.
My hands move under her borrowed T-shirt, fingers skimming warm skin, the curve of her waist. She shivers, but not from fear.
I ease her back onto the couch, following her down, hovering above her.
It’s not frantic. It’s not desperate.
It’s quiet.
It’s reverent.
Like she’s something holy and I’m trying to remember how to pray.
