Silence stretches thick with everything we're not saying. Then she turns, her eyes locking on mine, and I'm lost.
I cup her cheek before I even think, my thumb brushing over soft skin, and then I'm kissing her.
We’re on fire. Weeks of biting back words, late-night texts, stolen glances—all of it explodes in the press of her mouth against mine. She gasps, then grips the front of my shirt, pulling me closer, until there's no space between us at all.
Her lips are warm and insistent, tasting of wine and sugar, and when she parts them for me, I swear the ground shifts beneath my boots.
I drag my hand down her back, settling at her waist, pulling her flush against me. She melts into me, soft curves and sharp edges all at once, and the heat between us sparks higher.
A low sound escapes her throat, half-whimper, half-dare, and it undoes me. I back her gently against the wall of the barn, kissing her harder, deeper, until she's clinging to me as if I'm the only thing holding her upright.
My hands roam up her spine, into her hair, down to the curve of her hip, and every inch I touch feels like claiming something I shouldn't. Her fingers dig into my shoulders, her body arching into mine, and for a dangerous second, I want more. I want to lift her into my arms, press her closer, and lose myself in her right here under the stars.
"Asher," she whispers against my mouth, her voice trembling with equal parts warning and want.
I pull back just enough to see her face, her eyes wide, lips swollen from my kiss. She looks wrecked, beautiful, temptation itself wrapped in blue cotton and moonlight.
"This is dangerous," she says again, barely audible.
"I know," I rasp. My forehead presses against hers, my breath still ragged. "But I can't stop."
She exhales shakily, her fingers still fisted in my shirt. "Me neither."
For a heartbeat, I almost give in. Almost let myself take what I want, what I've been craving since the day she first set foot on my ranch.
But then I hear laughter drifting from the house, faint but enough to snap me back. My family's a few yards away. And if I don't slow down, I'm going to cross a line I can't uncross.
Her eyes search mine, wide and vulnerable, weighing every risk in a single heartbeat. Then she leans in again, kissing me softer now, slower.
I wrap my arms around her, holding her tight, knowing I shouldn't, knowing this only pulls us deeper into something we can't control.
But for once, I don't care.
Because tonight, in the quiet dark of Walker Lake, with Kassi in my arms, it feels like the only thing that's real.
We stay there for one long breath and then another. I press my mouth to her temple and feel her shiver. The night hums with crickets and the slow thud of my heart trying to calm down.
"We should go back in," she whispers. "Before someone comes looking."
"Yeah." I do not move. I trace a line down her arm with my knuckles, slow, careful. I’m learning a new boundary I will have to honor. "You fit in there," I say, and it slips out before I can stop it.
Her eyes soften. "That makes it worse."
I nod. It does. It makes everything harder and somehow clearer.
I grab some of the wood mom asked me to bring back and we start toward the house. Halfway there, she catches my hand. It is quick and small, a squeeze that says I’m not imagining any of this. She lets go when the porch light hits us.
Inside, Jenna is stacking plates. Mom is fussing with the foil. Zach is at the wood bin like he actually waited for me. He eyes the empty space in my hands and smirks. "Forget something."
I grab two logs because it gives me something to do with my hands. "Got distracted."
Finn bites back a grin. "By the night sky."
"Something like that," I say. Kassi thanks Mom and Jenna again, promises to bring a dish next time, and I feel that words land in my chest. Next time.
At the door, she looks at me once more. It is nothing to anyone else. To me, it is a line cast in deep water.
I follow her out, just to the edge of the porch. "Text me when you get home," I say. My voice sounds rougher than I want.