A tear slipped down her cheek.
“I don’t know what to do with this.”
“You don’t have to do anything.”
“That is not true.”
“It is.”
“No.” She turned fully toward me. “You built me a house, Dylan.”
“I renovated a house.”
“With the tile I liked.”
“Yes.”
“And the counters.”
“Yes.”
“And native landscaping.”
“Yes.”
“No fake grass?”
“I value my life.”
Another laugh broke through her tears.
Then she crossed the kitchen and kissed me.
Not careful.
Not polite.
Not the controlled kisses we had practiced for months, full of restraint and timing and the mutual understanding that we were not rushing what had already taken years.
This kiss was different.
It came from somewhere deeper than relief.
Her hands went to my face, and her mouth found mine like she had finally reached the end of every road that had kept us apart. I caught her waist, pulling her in before I could remember patience, before I could remember the speech I had planned about choices and no pressure and taking our time.
She tasted like coffee, salt, and tears.
Like home before the word was safe.
I backed against the counter under the force of her, laughing once against her mouth because I was still healing enough that sudden happiness apparently counted as impact.
She pulled back immediately. “Pain?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“Worth it.”
