The world narrowed to the space between us.
Her hand came up like she might catch my wrist, then stopped halfway, hanging there in the air between us. I could feel the heat rolling off her and whatever perfume she wore that made my head go loose and my restraint feel flimsy. My thumb stayed at her cheekbone a second too long, rough pad against smooth skin.
I leaned in.
Not much. Just enough that I could feel the ghost of her breath against my lips, just enough that if either of us moved another fraction, our mouths would meet and there would be no taking any of this back. My hips edged closer on pure instinct, the front of my jeans brushing the hem of her sweater, my heart pounding so hard it felt like it lived in my throat. Every remembered version of myself—the man who used to kiss women against walls and make them forget their names—came roaring up like he’d just been waiting for an opening.
Clara didn’t move away.
Her lips parted, the smallest sound catching in her throat, a soft, helpless little inhale that lit every fuse I had left. Her gaze dropped to my mouth again, slow and deliberate this time, like she was giving herself away on purpose.
Hayes’s face flashed in my mind. Clara with a diamond on her finger. Our stupid rule list on the fridge. Every reason this was a terrible idea lined up in a neat, brutal row.
I forced myself back a few inches, enough to break the gravity that had been pulling us together. The loss of warmth hit first, then the hollow feel of air sliding between us again.
“Wes ...” she whispered, my name barely there, more exhale than sound.
Shame crashed in on the heels of want. Best friend’s little sister. Roommate. Woman who had walked in on me at my lowest and still moved into my house anyway. I wasn’t a man who got to put his hands on her and pretend it was simple.
“Sorry,” I muttered, though I wasn’t entirely sure what I was apologizing for. Almost kissing her. Not kissing her. Hell, all of it.
Clara swallowed, throat bobbing. Her gaze skated away, finding refuge in the safest thing in the room—a damn cabinet door. “It’s ... fine,” she said too quickly. Her fingers fumbled for the pan handle like she needed something to hold on to that wasn’t me.
I cleared my throat, the sound too loud in the small kitchen. “You want to ... watch something?”
The second the words left my mouth, I wanted to drag them back. It sounded weak and obvious, like a teenager trying to translate almost-kiss into couch time.
Her eyes flicked to the living room entrance, and the reality of what she’d see out there landed in my gut like a stone.
Then her gaze came back to me, and I watched all of it cross her face—the memory of my hand on her cheek, the way I’d leaned in, the space I’d put back between us. Something in her softened, then shuddered. Maybe she remembered who I was to her.
Her voice was barely above normal, but I heard the wobble under it. “I can’t,” she said. “I need to send a few emails. If I don’t do it tonight, I’ll talk myself out of it tomorrow.”
Of course she did. It seemed Clara Darling ran on momentum. Plans. Anything that kept her from standing still long enough to feel how close we’d just come to crossing a line.
I nodded once, trying to make my face something neutral instead of the prickling embarrassment clawing at my throat. “Yeah.” I tried to sound casual. “Do your thing.”
Clara hesitated at the edge of the kitchen, like part of her was tethered there and the rest was already halfway up the stairs. Her lashes lifted in my direction.
“Dinner was really nice, Wes,” she said, and the quiet emphasis on my name made my chest tighten. “Thank you.”
Before I could respond—before I could say out loud what was almost eating me alive—she turned and headed upstairs, her footsteps light but quick, each a reminder of everything I avoided and everything I’d almost done.
I stayed in the kitchen long after she disappeared, staring at the clean sink, the warm light, the empty chair across from mine.
My body still felt like it was humming.
My mouth still felt like it had been inches from hers.
My house felt too quiet again.
My chest felt like it had been cracked open a fraction, and I didn’t know whether to curse or breathe.
I turned toward the living room and took two steps before I saw it the way she probably did.
Not the way I saw it, from the inside, as a place I’d made do. A place where I could keep my leg within reach and my panic contained. A place where I didn’t have to climb anything, face anything, or admit anything.
The couch was a nest. Chargers coiled like vines. A half-empty bottle of water. Pill bottles clustered near the remote likethey belonged on display. A blanket I’d been sleeping under for months, bunched up in the corner with a permanent dent in the cushion where my body had trained it to hold me.