I could close the gap in a heartbeat.
I could kiss her and never recover.
And God help me, I want to.
“Harper,” I breathe.
Her name feels heavy. Loaded. Like something sacred and fragile that I’m not sure I deserve to say out loud.
“Yeah?”
The word is low. Barely a whisper. Her eyes drop to my mouth again.
One move. That’s all it would take. She’s close enough.
And God help me, I want to.
“We should—” I start, but the words choke out when she leans in, just a hair. Not even an inch, but I feel it like gravity. Like the air between us just got its own heartbeat.
“Should what?” she murmurs.
That teasing, low pull in her voice… she knows. She has to know.
Talk. We should talk.
Her fingers slide over mine where we’re still both holding the fallen shirt. Damp fabric. Warm skin. The contrast jolts straight up my spine.
Then she says my name—just, “Caleb”—but it lands like a fuse being lit.
“Fuck it.”
I kiss her.
And she doesn’t hesitate—not for a second. She’s in my arms like she’s been waiting years, her hands tangling in my hair, pulling me down to her.
Her mouth opens against mine—lips so soft, then thegentle peek of her tongue, and oh god, I taste her. Mint. Sweetness.Her.
My groin tightens even as my chest expands like I’ve just lifted straight off the earth itself.
We’re still crouched awkwardly on the floor, knees knocking, off balance, but I don’t care. I just drag her closer until there’s no space left between us.
She makes this sound, low and broken in her throat that I remember from the last time we kissed, and just like then, it nearly fucking undoes me.
Eighteen years without this, without her, and I didn’t even know what I was missing.
“We shouldn’t,” I mutter against her lips. “You’re leaving.” But my hands are already on her jaw, my mouth already mapping the line down to her neck.
“I know,” she breathes, and then her nails are sliding under my shirt, dragging up my stomach in a way that knocks the air right out of me. “You want strings.”
I groan loud enough to bounce off the basement walls and haul her to her feet without breaking the kiss. We take one step back together, and her back hits the warm metal of the dryer. She arches into me with a gasp that makes me want to taste every sound she’s capable of.
Then she’s hopping up onto the dryer like she knows exactly what I want, legs parting so I can step between them. Her heels lock behind my back, her hands gripping my shirt to pull me in.
And it’s perfect.
My body fits between her thighs like that’s where it’s always belonged. Because of course it is. The steady humof the dryer under us, the heat of her pressed tight against me—it’s all so much and not enough at the same time.
“Is this insane?” I ask because if she says yes, I need to stop. I will stop.