He tilts his head, and the kiss deepens just slightly—enough to steal my breath but not enough to overwhelm.
Heat pools low in my stomach.
My knees actually weaken.
He catches me instinctively, pulling me closer.
And that’s when it shifts.
Not into lust.
Into something heavier.
Because this doesn’t feel casual.
It doesn’t feel like a man who kisses women in clubs and forgets their names.
It feels deliberate.
Claiming.
And that realization makes my heart pound harder than anything else.
I pull back first.
Just barely.
Our mouths separate, but our foreheads stay pressed together.
We’re both breathing harder.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I whisper.
“Like what?”
“Like you just made a decision that affects both our lives.”
His thumb traces the curve of my hip once before he forces his hand to still.
“I didn’t,” he says.
But his voice is unsteady now.
And we both know something changed.
“You need to figure out what you’re doing,” I tell him softly. “With the rugby thing. With your life.”
“And you?” he asks.
“I’m not a backup plan,” I say.
The words hang between us.
Firm. Clear.
He studies me like he’s memorizing something.
“You’re not,” he agrees.