The kiss deepens, not in urgency but in confidence. In discovery.
He tilts his head, adjusting instinctively, learning the shape of me the way his hands learned the piano keys earlier. His thumb moves in small, unconscious circles at my side, and the tenderness of it undoes me far more effectively than anything rough ever could.
My heart is racing.
Not from nerves.
From recognition.
This isn’t reckless.
This is chosen.
I shift my weight, and the movement brings us impossibly closer. He inhales sharply again, the sound barely audible but unmistakable.
His forehead comes to rest against mine when the kiss finally breaks.
Neither of us pulls away.
Our breathing fills the small space between us, uneven and shared.
His eyes open slowly.
There’s wonder in them.
And something else.
Something steadier.
“Christina,” he says quietly.
My name sounds different in his voice now.
I run my thumb lightly along his cheek, feeling the faint roughness of stubble beneath my skin.
“You didn’t run,” I whisper.
A small, almost disbelieving smile touches his mouth.
“No,” he says.
His hands remain at my waist, but his grip softens, no longer holding me in place but resting there because he wants to.
Because I want him to.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
There is nowhere else to be.
Nothing else to prove.
Outside, somewhere beyond the walls of the cottage, a bird calls into the late afternoon air. The sound feels distant. Irrelevant.
Everything that matters is here.
He exhales slowly, like he’s settling into himself.
“I’ve wanted to do that,” he admits.