Without thinking, I reach up and touch it with my fingertip. Just barely. Just for a second.
He goes completely still.
I drop my hand. "Sorry. I don't know why I did that."
"It's fine," he says, and his voice has dropped another register.
"You were saying," I manage. "About pursuing."
"Yeah." He clears his throat. "This is nothing like me. I don't do this. I don't ask for things. I don't—" He makes a frustrated gesture with his bandaged hand. "I have no idea how to do any of this, Ruby. I want to be honest about that. But I want to try. If you want to." His eyes are direct, serious. "And if you don't, if this isn't something you want, that's fine. I'll respect it. I won't make it weird at work. I won't push."
I look at him for a long moment.
"You're an idiot," I say.
He blinks. "What?"
"For running last night. You kissed me and then ran like the building was on fire, and I sat there like an idiot wondering what I'd done wrong." I cross my arms. "You're an idiot for that."
"Yeah," he says quietly. "I know. I'm sorry."
"And this is nothing like me either. I don't… I don't do this. I don't trust people quickly. I have extremely good reasons not to trust people quickly." I hold his gaze. "But I want to see where this goes too." I pause, making sure he hears this next part. "But you need to know something. I'm a package deal. I come with a five-year-old who has opinions about everything and takes up more space than is physically possible for someone his size. If you want this, if you want me, you need to be a thousand percent sure. Because if things go well, he'll know about you. And I cannot have another man walk away from him. I won't survive it and more importantly he won't. So, if you have any doubts—"
"I don't." No hesitation. Not even a breath of pause.
"Jake—"
"I don't have doubts about this," he says firmly. "I got overwhelmed last night. Being that open with someone—" He shakes his head slightly. "I don't do that. Ever. It scared the shit out of me and I ran, and that was wrong. But it wasn't doubt." His eyes hold mine. "I'm not going anywhere, Ruby."
Something in my chest, some tight, guarded, long-defended thing, loosens by a fraction.
"I believe you," I say. It surprises me that it's true.
We stand there for a moment in the small cluttered room, and I don't know what comes next, what the protocol is for this particular conversation in this particular situation, and I realize I'm about to ask him *so what do we do now* in the most awkward possible way.
But he doesn't give me the chance.
His eyes close, just briefly, like a man stepping off a ledge, and then he leans forward and kisses me.
Both hands move at once, one sliding to the small of my back, pulling me against him with a gentle but unmistakable certainty, the other cupping my face. His hand is enormous against my cheek, his palm covering from my jaw to my temple, fingers curving into my hair, and it's so warm that I lean into it like a plant toward light. Something I can't control. Something just biological and honest.
This kiss is nothing like last night's.
Last night was a question. This is an answer.
His mouth moves against mine slowly, thoroughly, like he's decided to do this properly and isn't in any particular hurry about it. He tastes like coffee, and he kisses me like he's been thinking about this exact moment all night.
I make a sound against his mouth. Can't help it.
His hand on my back presses me closer, and I go, my hands finding his chest, his shirt, his solid warmth. We break apart and come back together, shifting, adjusting, learning each other's rhythm. My back connects with the edge of the desk and neither of us stops moving until we're both breathless and have to part just to remember how air works.
I'm staring up at him, lips swollen, chest heaving.
I am completely, thoroughly soaked through my underwear. Have been since approximately the moment his hand touched my face.
I am also, apparently, staring directly at his pants, because my brain has made some executive decisions without consulting the rest of me.
The bulge pressing against his jeans is significant. Visibly, obviously, impressively significant. And it's not static. I can seeit, thick and straining against the denim, pulsing slightly with his heartbeat.
