For now, my brain helpfully supplies. There’s still the repairs. The insurance. The rescheduled classes. The?—
“Stop.”
Mal’s voice cuts through my spiral. He’s standing near the front desk, watching me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“Stop what?”
“Whatever disaster you’re catastrophizing about.” He pushes off from where he’s been leaning and walks toward me. “I can hear you thinking from across the room.”
“That’s not possible.”
“The crisis is handled, Isadora.” He stops a few feet away, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. “The studio is safe. The children are home. Everything that needed to be done today has been done.”
“For now.”
“Yes. For now.” His voice softens. “That’s how life works. One ‘for now’ at a time.”
I want to argue with him. I want to point out all the problems that will be waiting for me tomorrow and all the reasons I should be worried and planning and preparing instead of standing here in my empty studio with my heart beating too fast. But I don’t.
Because standing here, in the aftermath of everything, with the soft hum of machinery and the last rays of sunset filtering through the windows, I don’t want to think about tomorrow. I want to think about now. About him.
“You stayed,” I say quietly.
“I did.”
“All day.”
“Seemed like the thing to do.”
“Most people would have left after the pipes were fixed.”
He tilts his head, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I’m not most people.”
“No.” My voice comes out rougher than I intended. “You’re not.”
Something shifts in the air between us. The playful energy that usually surrounds him sharpens into something more focused, more intent. His eyes, dark in the fading light, fix on mine withan intensity that makes my breath catch and I see the red sparks in their depths.
“Isadora.”
“Yes?”
“You’re staring at me.”
“I’m aware.”
“Any particular reason?”
Because you spent twelve hours handling my disaster like it was your own. Because you danced with a shy little boy and made him feel special. Because you’re standing here, still, when you could have left hours ago. Because I can’t stop thinking about what it would feel like to kiss you again.
I don’t say any of that. Instead, I close the distance between us. It’s only two steps—two small steps that feel like crossing an ocean—and then I’m right in front of him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, close enough to see the slight widening of his eyes as he realizes what I’m about to do.
“Isadora—”
I kiss him. It’s not like the first time, that explosive collision of heat and frustration in my kitchen. This is slow and deliberate. I rise up on my toes, thread my fingers through his hair, and press my lips to his with everything I’ve been feeling all day.
Thank you. I want you. Stay.
For a heartbeat, he doesn’t move. Then his hands are on my waist, pulling me closer, and he’s kissing me back with a hunger that steals the breath from my lungs. His mouth is warm and demanding, coaxing my lips apart, and when his tongue slidesagainst mine I make a sound I’ve never heard myself make before—something raw and desperate that should embarrass me but doesn’t. His fingers dig into my hips hard enough to leave marks, and I want him to leave marks. I want evidence of this moment, proof that it’s real.
