Maybe Tristan isn’t finished figuring himself out, but this—this hospital room, this ambulance, this fence, this look in his eyes—this is real enough for me.
So I reach for him.
His brows pull together.
“Isa—”
I catch the front of his hoodie and pull him down.
He comes easily.
Too easily.
And then I kiss him.
For one suspended second, I think this is it.
The kiss I’ve been building in my head for weeks.
The payoff.
The confirmation.
The thing that turns all this almost into finally.
Instead—it’s warm.
Warm like brandy on a cold winter night.
Warm like comfort.
Warm like care.
Not lightning.
Not the world cracking in two.
Not the firework collapse I wanted badly enough to embarrass myself for.
He kisses me back.
Gently.
Carefully.
His hand coming to the side of my face like I’m hurt in more ways than one and he knows it.
That tenderness nearly ruins me.
Because maybe fireworks are overrated.
Maybe this is what real choosing feels like.
Maybe all that heat and almost and restraint was only ever building toward this softer thing.
When he pulls back, he stays close.
Forehead almost touching mine.
