"I don't do this," she blurted, the words tumbling out. "The part after the not-date. The part where you roll the dice and someone turns out to be, I dunno, real. Not just a future anecdote for my next girls' night."
He didn't cut in, didn't rush with reassurance. He waited. Did the whole giving her space without making her feel like she had to do a tap number to fill it.
Honestly, it helped. Which also made it a hundred times more terrifying.
She scowled at the suspiciously distressed coffee table. "Can I say something absolutely, one million percent ridiculous?"
"Yeah. Always."
She didn't look at him as she said, "Every time I so much as think I could maybe, possibly be happy? The universe gets bored and snatches the popcorn. Like, 'Here you go, Piper, have a little hope'—and then, boom. Mom gets on with divorce number four. The bridesmaid just slept with the groom." She could feel a laugh trying to launch itself up her throat, except it did a U-turn somewhere near her tonsils. "I break things, Zach. I walk into anything good with relationships and poof—disaster confetti. I'm practically a walking curse."
She meant it as a joke. Or at least as that reliable old scar you poke just to see if it still stings. But her voice betrayed her, cracking right down the middle. For the first time, she couldn't chase it away with a laugh and a wink.
He said nothing for a second, just staring with those annoyingly stable blue eyes.
"You're not cursed," he said. Then he paused, like he needed to remember how breathing worked.
"And you're not broken." He reached over, resting his hand on hers, light as a feather but warm enough to melt chocolate. "You're just believably bruised."
Suddenly the joke wasn't a joke at all. Nope, it was a scab he lifted with impossible gentleness.
She tried to smile, but her face only managed the kind that hurts. "That's way worse, you know."
He didn't let go. Instead, he moved into her space, took the sparkling water and set it on the coffee table.
He didn't even use a coaster.
Then his hand was against her jawline, and he brushed his lips against hers.
"Being bruised shows you've fought through hard times and kept going," he said, kissing her. "It means you stuck it out when most people would've noped right out."
He laid his forehead against hers, and the silence that followed felt heavier than usual. Every cell in her wanted to run, crack a joke, do literally anything but stay put.
But instead of running, she whispered, "I don't know what you want from me, Zach."
He leaned in just a tick. "I want what you're willing to give. I want to kiss you. But only if you want me to."
She let out a laugh that came out all wet and hiccupy and mortifying, and squeaked, "I do."
His hand stayed at her cheek, sliding up into her hair, gripping it in a way that made her melt right into him. Then his body was over hers and this kiss was nothing like the closet.
The universe shrank to the heat of his mouth and the rough scrape of his thumb along her neck. The impossible safety of being right where she wanted to be with him made her wet.
Yup, there was not a single part of her that wanted to file a complaint with corporate. Hesitation melted into permission, and permission opened the door to everything else. She kissed him back.
Okay, fine, she basically attacked him.
At first, it was all trembling hands and what-am-I-doing nerves, but then those melted right into oh-yes-please permission.
And permission?
That was buy-one-get-the-entire-catalog-free, because suddenly, anything felt possible and Piper tossed her last bit of caution over her shoulder like an unwanted bra.
He reached for the hem of her shirt with all the reverence of a man about to unwrap his favorite holiday gift.
One slow tug, and it came right off.
His hands trailed along her bare sides to the spot between her legs, pressing there before unbuttoning her slacks and pulling them down.
