“You better not.”
“I won’t.” He kisses my forehead. “I just sent a message to forty people declaring you’re my girlfriend. You think I’m going to walk that back?”
“You could.”
“I won’t.” His eyes hold mine. “Gisele. I spent years avoiding this moment because I was scared of it. Now it’s happened, and you know what I feel?”
“What?”
“Free.” The word comes out like a revelation. I feel it too. Something I didn’t expect—my own release. Like I’ve been holding my breath, and I finally just... exhaled. “I feel free. LikeI’ve been carrying something heavy my whole life and I finally put it down.”
The honesty in his voice undoes me.
I’ve been so focused on protecting myself—on testing him, challenging him, making sure he won’t retreat—that I forgot to actually feel what’s happening. The man I’ve loved for so damn long just told his entire social circle that I’m his. Not someday. Not eventually. Right now, in real time, where everyone can see.
That matters.
“I believe you,” I say.
“You do?”
“I believe you.” I reach up, touch his face. “Not because you said the right things or passed the tests. Because you did something. You took action. That’s what I needed to see.”
“I should have done it a long time ago.”
“Yeah. You should have.” I smile despite myself. “But you did it now. And now counts.”
His phone buzzes again. Neither of us looks at it.
“So what happens next?” he asks.
“What do you want to happen?”
“Everything.” The word is immediate. “I want to take you to dinner where everyone can see us. I want to hold your hand in public without checking who’s watching. I want to wake up with you and go to sleep with you and do all the normal couple things I’ve been too scared to imagine.”
“That’s a lot.”
“You’re worth a lot.”
I should have clever words to say. Some quip that deflects the intensity, keeps us both from drowning in the weight of this moment.
Instead, I kiss him.
Not gently. Not carefully. I kiss him like I’ve wanted to kiss him for twelve years—with all the wanting and waiting and hope finally given permission to exist.
He responds in kind, pulling me closer, one hand tangled in my hair and the other pressed flat against my lower back. This isn’t the hesitant exploration of new lovers. This is the hungry collision of two people who’ve been starving.
“Gisele.” My name comes out rough against my mouth.
“Mmm?”
“The salon. We’re in the salon.”
“I know.”
“There are windows. People can see.”
“I know.” I pull back enough to meet his eyes. “Is that a problem?”
