She did not answer immediately.
I could hear the water beneath the seawall and the distant sound of someone lowering equipment onto a boat.
“Are you asking because you want to,” she said, “or because we’ve reached the part of the conversation where people kiss instead of solving anything?”
“Both.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“That was honest.”
“I have wanted to kiss you since the airport. I also have no idea what else to say without repeating myself.”
“That is less romantic than your first answer.”
“It is more accurate.”
Ellie looked down, and for one horrible second I thought I had ruined it by failing to select the elegant option.
Then she moved closer.
“You can kiss me.”
I leaned in carefully.
The first touch of her mouth against mine was almost restrained.
Then Ellie’s hand moved behind my neck, and restraint lost its position in the conversation.
She tasted like coffee and mint. My hand settled at her waist as she turned toward me, familiar enough that my body remembered before my thoughts did.
The kiss deepened.
There was relief in it, and anger, and the desire we had spent several weeks pretending could be handled through communication policies.
When we finally separated, Ellie kept her forehead against mine.
“You’re still sleeping in the spare room.”
“I respect the spare room.”
“You looked personally offended by the pillow.”
“It seemed isolated.”
“There are more in the closet.”
“You mentioned that.”
I kissed the corner of her mouth.
Ellie pulled back slightly.
“Did you ask permission for that one?”
“No.”
“That was reckless.”
