The sound of his boots on the porch comes a second later.
“Smells incredible,” Jesse says as he steps inside, setting his tool belt down by the door. “And peaceful. I’m so glad Marshall took the kids home to feed them there. I can’t remember the last time I got to eat in peace.”
His hair is mussed, his shirt darkened with sweat at the collar, and he looks comfortable in my kitchen, like he belongs in the space.
That thought lands dangerously.
“Sit,” I tell him, a little too firmly. “Before you decide to fix something else.”
He grins and obeys, stretching his long legs out under the table. “You wound me. I can rest. Sometimes.”
We eat.
And for a while, it’s easy.
We talk about nothing and everything. The market, which is coming up faster than I’d like. The fence post Jesse swears was already leaning before the fire and definitely isn’t his fault.
I laugh more than I have in days.
He does too, leaning back in his chair, eyes warm, relaxed in a way I haven’t seen since before everything went sideways.
When we’re done, I gather the bowls, moving automatically. He stands to help, of course he does, and our hands bump at the sink.
Just a brush. Just skin against skin.
My breath stutters.
I feel it immediately, that spark, that awareness that has been hovering between us all morning, finally snapping taut.
Jesse stills.
He looks at me, and the air shifts.
It’s subtle, but unmistakable. The moment before a storm breaks.
“Abilene,” he says quietly.
I should step back.
I should make a joke. I should thank him again and change the subject and keep everything safe and manageable and not terrifying.
He takes a step closer.
Just close enough that I can smell him. Soap, sweat, sawdust. My fingers curl against the edge of the counter.
Neither of us speaks.
I tilt my head up. He leans down.
The kiss happens before my brain can catch up. It’s almost tentative. We’re both checking to see if this is real.
It is.
His kiss is warm, and when I make a small sound, he deepens the kiss instinctively. Jesse’s mouth trails lower, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world and knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
My sweater slips off one shoulder, then the other, fabric sliding down my arms until it’s barely hanging on. Cool air kisses my skin and I gasp, soft, embarrassed, needy, all at once.
“Fuck, Abilene,” Jesse murmurs, as if the words are torn out of him.
