“But you can’t promise that,” I whisper. “No one can.”
“You’re right,” he concedes. “I can’t promise nothing will ever take me away. But I can promise I’ll never choose to leave you again.”
I want to believe him so badly it hurts.
He sets his glass down on the porch floor with a soft clink. His palm is warm and calloused against mine, his fingers curling around my own with a gentleness that makes my heart ache.
I look down at our intertwined fingers, at the way his thumb traces small circles against my skin.
“It scares me,” I confess. “How much I still feel for you.”
When I look up, his eyes are burning with something raw and real. We’re both laying ourselves bare, waiting for the other to decide if it’s enough.
“I’m scared, too,” he admits, his voice rough. “Scared I’ll mess this up again. Scared you’ll realize I’m that same screwed up kid who never deserved you in the first place.”
In this exact moment where everything hangs in the balance, I realize something so simple it almost makes me laugh.
I’m tired of being afraid.
I’m tired of waiting for the other shoe to drop. I’m tired of holding myself back from the one thing I’ve always wanted.
“You were never that,” I say, squeezing his hand. “Not to me.”
My fingers twitch with the need to reach out. I want to trace the tattoo on his forearm, rest my head on his shoulder, kiss the regret off his mouth and pretend none of it ever happened.
“I can’t survive another almost, Rowan.”
His jaw clenches, his throat working around a swallow. “This isn’t almost. Not this time.”
I study him. Every line of his face. The boy with storm-blue eyes that always held storms of their own, with the crookedsmile that used to make me laugh until it hurt. Always the one I never quite stopped loving, no matter how many miles or years stretched between us.
His eyes never leave mine, and they’re asking,Do you want this? Want me?
I know exactly what I want. I’ve known since I was fifteen and he passed me a folded note in math class with a half smirk. I’ve known since he kissed someone else and I went home and cried into my pillow, hating how bad it hurt.
He’s here now. Right here. Wehavealready lost so much time to fear and silence and all the wrong choices.
Why am I still waiting?
So I do the only thing that feels honest. I set my glass down next to his. I lean forward, my heart hammering so hard I’m sure he can hear it. The space between us shrinks until his breath warms my lips and I can count each dark eyelash framing those impossibly blue eyes.
For a heartbeat, we hover there, suspended in that fragile moment between wanting and having.
Then I close the final distance.
His lips are soft against mine, tentative at first. I make a small sound in the back of my throat. A sigh, a whimper, I’m not even sure, but that’s all it takes.
Rowan’s hands come up to cradle my face, his calloused palms warm against my cheeks. His kiss deepens as his fingers slip into my hair, pulling me close. His mouth moves over mine with a desperation that has me clenching his shirt in my hands just for something to hold onto.
When he pulls back enough to look at me, his eyes are dark, wild, and filled with relief. “Violet…”
I answer him by leaning in again, my lips meeting his with a softness that’s only temporary. Because then it’s all there again, that hunger, that need, like he can’t kiss me fast enough to make up for everything we’ve missed.
I melt into his touch, letting myself fall completely, finally. His lips are fire and apology and longing all at once, a confession that’s waited years to be spoken. Every missed moment, every word we never dared to say is buried in the press of his mouth against mine.
I part for him, my chest heaving, heart hammering so hard I’m sure he can feel it against his own. When he slides his tongue against mine, he groans, deep and guttural. The sound rattles straight through me, shaking loose years of restraint.
His taste is addictive, a heady mix of peach and something that’s all him. Every brush of his lips, every gentle tug, rips through me, leaving me breathless, desperate, andsoaware of just how much time we’ve wasted.
