“Yeah,” I say again, stepping closer. Close enough that I can feel the heat coming off him, close enough that if I leaned in even an inch, it would be over.
I don’t want to kiss him.
“That’s a lie,” I tell myself.
I do want to kiss him. I want to kiss him more than I want to breathe. But I don’t move first. I can’t. It has to be him. It has to be his choice, not something I pulled him into.
Because I’ve been here before, too. Been here… and had it thrown back at me.
The arguments. The accusations. The way he’d twist things around afterwards, saying we only ended up in bed because I’d pushed so hard, because he was drunk, because I caught him off guard in a moment of weakness.
I knew even then that those were all lies. Not even lies he believed—lies he needed. Something to protect himself from the truth.
From me.
This time, there must be none of that. No being pushed into anything. No alcohol. No moments of weakness. No excuses. Just him… and me.
If this happens, he owns it.
He owns me.
He steps closer, until his chest brushes against me, and the contact sends a sharp pulse through my over-sensitized body. My nipples tighten instantly, reacting spontaneously to his touch, even before my brain can catch up. My breath hitches, and I hate how much he notices.
I keep my eyes on his, even though I shouldn’t. There’s too much there. Too much I could read into them if I let myself.
But the moment his head dips forward, everything else falls away.
When our lips meet, it’s not explosive.
It’s worse.
It’s slow.
Soft.
Tentative.
The kind of kiss that asks instead of takes.
Heat unfurls through me anyway, sharp enough to steal the air from my lungs. I gasp against his mouth, and he pauses just long enough to feel it, to register it, before continuing.
This isn’t like before. Not frantic. Not desperate.
Different.
New.
Like he’s relearning me.
Or offering something clean where everything between us used to be tangled and messy and sharp.
My chest tightens at the realization, something fragile and dangerous blooming in the heat.
He’s not just kissing me.
He’s asking.
Asking if I want this version of him.