The words hang between us, loaded with meaning I’m not sure either of us is ready to unpack.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice rough. “You passed.”
She steps closer, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in her dark eyes, close enough that if I lowered my head just a few inches...
“Good,” she whispers.
We stand there for a moment, caught in each other’s gravity, and I realize with startling clarity that my self-control has limits. Spending another night in that bed with her, after tonight—after seeing her laugh with my friends, mark her territory with bartenders, and look at me like I’m something worth keeping...
I might not be responsible for what happens.
“We should go in,” I say, but I don’t move.
“We should,” she agrees, but she doesn’t move either.
Instead, we stand there in the falling snow, both aware that something is shifting between us, that the careful boundaries we’ve maintained all weekend are starting to crack.
And I’m not sure I want to fix them.
The house is quiet as we slip inside; everyone is already asleep. Clare kicks off her boots by the door, and I try not to notice how her jeans hug her curves as she bends over. I try and fail spectacularly.
By the time we reach my bedroom, every muscle in my body is wound tight with desire and the effort of holding back. I close the door behind us, and suddenly the space feels even smaller than usual—more intimate, more dangerous.
Clare moves around the room, hanging up her coat and pulling her hair out of the ponytail she had put it in at the bar. These normal, everyday movements shouldn’t drive me insane, but they absolutely do.
I sit heavily on the edge of the bed, running my hands through my hair, trying to collect my thoughts. But she’s right there, smelling of winter air and something uniquely hers, and I’m losing the battle for self-control—fast.
“You okay?” she asks, pausing in front of her bag.
“Fine,” I lie.
She turns to look at me, really look at me, and I see her take in my tense posture, the way I grip the edge of the mattress as if it’s the only thing keeping me grounded.
“Mitch.” Her voice is soft and concerned. “Did I do something wrong tonight?”
The question hits me like a punch to the gut. “No. God, no. You were perfect.”
“Then what—”
“I’m trying really hard to be a gentleman here, Clare.” The words come out rougher than I intended. “And you’re not making it easy.”
She goes very still. “What do you mean?”
I look up at her, and whatever she sees in my expression makes her breath catch.
“I mean I’ve been thinking about kissing you all night. All weekend, actually.” I drag a hand over my face. “I’m sorry. This isn’t your fault. I just—I need a minute.”
Instead of backing away, she steps closer—close enough that I could reach out and touch her if I wanted to, which I desperately want to.
“What if I don’t want you to be a gentleman?” she asks quietly.
My eyes lift to hers. “Clare—”
But she’s already moving, coming to stand between my knees, her hands resting on my shoulders. “What if I’ve been thinking about it too?”
“This wasn’t part of the agreement,” I manage to say, even as my hands instinctively find her hips. “Are you sure?”
Instead of answering with words, she leans down and kisses me.