Silence stretches between us.
I reach out without thinking and brush a faint streak of dried sauce from her wrist. My thumb lingers a fraction too long.
She doesn’t pull away.
Her breathing shifts.
My hand lifts, hesitates, then gently brushes a loose strand of hair back from her face.
“Careful,” she murmurs.
“Why?”
“Because this is the part where we forget we promised not to rush.”
I step closer anyway.
Her back meets the counter. My hands settle lightly at her waist. Not gripping. Just there.
“I’m not rushing,” I say softly.
Her fingers curl into the front of my shirt.
“Gabriel.”
The way she says my name now is different. Not formal. Not teasing.
Mine.
I lower my mouth to hers.
No audience. No barking dog. No small voice calling from upstairs.
This isn’t the courthouse kiss.
This isn’t the kitchen almost from last night.
This is slower.
I take my time. I feel the shape of her lips. The warmth. The soft exhale when she leans into it instead of away.
Her hands slide up my chest, over my shoulders. I feel it everywhere.
I deepen it just enough to make her gasp.
Her fingers press into my back like she’s bracing herself.
I want to lift her.
I don’t.
I want to forget patience.
I don’t.
My mouth trails once along her jaw, to the edge of her neck. I feel her shiver.
“Gabriel,” she whispers again.
