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"No more hiding," he murmurs, his dark eyes softening.

"No more hiding," I agree.

I don't wait for him to bridge the remaining distance between us. As Brock steps across the threshold, I reach for him first, curling my fingers into the lapels of his suit jacket and pulling him down to kiss me.

His arms come around me immediately, solid and warm. It's slow at first—tentative, almost careful—but then his hands tighten around my waist and the kiss deepens, turning hungry and claiming. He kicks the door shut behind him without breaking contact, his mouth moving over mine with the kind of intensity that makes my knees weak, his grip lifting me slightly onto my toes.

I tangle my fingers in his hair, kissing him back until my head spins.

When we finally break apart, I'm breathless, my heart pounding. Brock's dark eyes search mine, his thumb brushing over my cheek.

"I've wanted to do that openly for so long," he says quietly.

"Me too."

He kisses me again, softer this time, and I feel the weight of everything we've been carrying finally begin to lift.

The following Friday night, Brock takes me to Marcello's, an upscale Italian restaurant in the center of town. It's the kind of place where lawyers and doctors bring their spouses for anniversary dinners, where the lighting is warm and intimate, and where everyone knows everyone.

I wear a fitted burgundy dress that hugs my curves, my hair loose around my shoulders. When Brock picks me up at my apartment, he stands in the doorway for a full five seconds, his dark eyes sweeping over me with an intensity that makes my skin flush.

"You're stunning," he says, his voice low and rough.

"You're not so bad yourself," I manage, taking in the sharp lines of his charcoal suit, the way the fabric stretches across his broad shoulders.

He offers me his arm, and I take it, feeling the solid strength of him beneath my fingers.

At the restaurant, the hostess greets Brock by name and leads us to a corner table near the window. I'm hyper-aware of the other diners, the way a few heads turn as we pass. I recognize a parent from school. A colleague's husband. The woman who runs the bookstore on Main Street.

They're all watching.

Brock pulls out my chair, his hand resting briefly on the small of my back as I sit. The gesture is possessive and tender at once, and I feel the weight of it settle over me like a claim.

"Are you okay?" he asks quietly, once we're seated.

I glance around the room, then back at him. "People are staring."

"I know." He reaches across the table and takes my hand, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. His dark eyes hold mine. "Some of them will probably talk. But we've done everything right—the disclosure, the safeguards, the boundaries. If anyone has concerns, we'll address them professionally."

My chest tightens, but his steady confidence grounds me. I squeeze his hand. "Okay."

"You're the woman I'm dating," he says, his voice firm and warm. "The woman I want. And I'm not going to hide that."

I smile, feeling the last of my anxiety ease. "Good. Because I don't want to hide either."

The meal is perfect. We talk about everything—his work, my students, the books we've been reading, the places we want to travel. Brock is attentive and funny, teasing me about my obsession with color-coded lesson plans, asking thoughtful questions about my childhood, my dreams, the things that scare me.

He listens. He checks in. He lets me choose the wine, the dessert, the pace of the conversation.

And when the check comes, he doesn't let me reach for my purse.

"I've got it," he says firmly.

"Brock, I can pay⁠—"

"I know you can. But I'm taking you to dinner, Megan. Let me do this."

I relent, smiling. "Fine. But next time, I'm buying."