‘It might,’ she said. ‘For a lot of people.’
‘I’m not a lot of people.’
The pinball machine gave a soft ping, as if punctuating the statement.
Beth rolled her eyes, though her lashes looked suspiciously damp. ‘Ignore him. He’s annoying.’
‘Who?’
‘It’s a long story.’
He wanted to ask. He didn’t.
Instead, he reached for her hand. When she didn’t pull away, something inside him steadied. He stepped closer.
‘You don’t need to be perfect, Beth,’ he said. ‘You just need to be you.’
She went very still.
He became acutely aware of the space – or lack of it – between them. The warmth of her. The faint scent of soap and something unmistakably Beth. Her fingers in his.
‘You all right?’ he asked softly.
She nodded. ‘Just … remembering how to breathe.’
He smiled before he could stop himself.
Her gaze flicked briefly to his mouth, then back to his eyes. His pulse kicked up.
‘Beth,’ he began, and then stopped.
Because this mattered.
If he moved now, it would be easy. Too easy. And he didn’t want easy. He wanted right.
She stepped back half an inch, just enough to inhale deeply. ‘We should…’
‘Yes,’ he agreed quickly. ‘We should.’
Neither of them moved.
He scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck, suddenly aware of how exposed he felt. ‘I’m glad you told me,’ he said. ‘About everything.’
‘Me too.’
The look she gave him then wasn’t fearful. It wasn’t defensive.
It was hopeful.
That did it.
He closed the space carefully, giving her every opportunity to step away.
She didn’t.
The kiss was gentle at first – tentative, like they were tuning into the same frequency. He felt the slight catch of her breath, the softness of her mouth. It deepened slowly, warmth unfurling instead of sparking. The world narrowed to the quiet hum of the pub and the steady beat of his own heart.
When they parted, she rested her forehead against his chest.
