His eyes find mine, and something shifts immediately. Not surprise. Not nervousness.
Awareness.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.”
I step forward automatically, intending to brush past him into the cottage, but the space between us closes too slowly. My shoulder grazes his chest. His warmth presses into me. The air changes.
He smells like soap and clean cotton and something underneath that is simply him.
Before I can overthink it, I lift myself onto my toes and press a kiss to his cheek.
It’s meant to be casual.
Playful.
Safe.
But the moment stretches.
His skin is warm beneath my lips. Real. Solid.
When I begin to pull away, his hand settles at my waist.
Not tentative.
Not accidental.
Certain.
My breath catches.
I look up at him.
His eyes are darker now, focused in a way I haven’t seen before. His breathing shifts, just slightly. His fingers tighten almost imperceptibly against my side, like he’s anchoring himself to the moment.
He leans forward.
Slowly.
Carefully.
My entire body responds instantly, heat and anticipation and something far more dangerous unfurling low in my core.
But he doesn’t kiss me.
Instead, his forehead comes to rest against mine.
He exhales softly.
Like he’s been holding that breath all day.
The intimacy of it hits harder than a kiss would have. There is no performance in it. No bravado. Just him, exactly as he is, letting himself exist close to me without retreating.
I don’t move.
I don’t want to.