“Show-off.”
“It's not showing off if you're genuinely impressed,” I say, resting my hands on her hips.
“Who says I'm impressed?”
“Your face. Right now.”
She rolls her eyes, but doesn't step away. Instead, she tugs at the front of my shirt, pulling me down for a kiss that starts soft and quickly becomes something else. My hands tighten on her waist as she presses closer, her fingers threading into my hair.
When we break apart, her cheeks are flushed, and I'm feeling a little dazed myself.
“Okay,” she admits, a little breathless. “Maybe I'm a little impressed.”
I laugh, pressing my forehead against hers. “I'll take it.”
We stay like that for a moment, just breathing each otherin. I still can't quite believe we're here—that after months of missing her, of thinking I'd screwed everything up beyond repair, she's back in my arms. That she trusts me. That she's letting me see all the parts of herself she usually keeps hidden.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks quietly.
“How much I don't deserve you,” I say honestly.
It's only been ten days since we won the competition, but it feels like everything has changed. Like we've been living in some magical bubble where all the walls we spent months building just dissolved overnight.
We've barely spent an hour apart since that moment on stage. Something shifted when she asked me to join her celebration, and neither of us have looked back. All the hesitation, all the careful distance—gone, replaced by this incredible ease between us that I never thought possible.
Even Jared, who spent a solid week sulking about losing the competition, pulled me aside at Freddie’s party last night.
"You guys look good together," he'd said grudgingly, watching Delilah laugh with Tara across the room. “Like, disgustingly happy good. It's annoying as hell.”
And he's right. We are disgustingly happy. The kind of happy I never thought was meant for people like me—who grew up learning that the safest way to love someone was from a distance, or not at all. Yet here we are, falling asleep together, waking up together.
She pulls back slightly, eyes serious. “Don't say that.”
“It's true though.”
“No, it's not.” She cups my face in her hands, forcing me to meet her gaze. “You deserve good things, Troy. Why is that so hard for you to believe?”
I shrug, uncomfortable with how easily she sees through me sometimes. “Force of habit, I guess.”
She studies me for a moment, then seems to make adecision. She takes my hand and leads me to the reading nook in the corner—a small alcove with a window seat piled with cushions. It's our spot now, where we spend rainy evenings like this one when she has to close up.
We settle into the cushions, Delilah tucked against my side, both of us looking out at the rain-slicked street.
“Remember that first night you showed up here?” she asks. “With the donuts?”
I smile at the memory. “You were so annoyed.”
“I was hungry,” she corrects. “And suspicious.”
“Fair.”
“Did you know then?” she asks, her voice softer. “That this would happen?”
I think about it, my fingers tracing lazy patterns on her arm. “No. I just knew I wanted to be around you. Even when you were driving me crazy.”
“Especially then,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice.
“Maybe,” I admit. “There's something about you when you're passionate or angry... it's like watching a force of nature.”
