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I found myself relaxing, the tension melting from my shoulders. We talked and laughed about nothing consequential. For once my mind wasn’t spinning, planning for tomorrow, or worrying about next week.
“How were classes today?” Brahms asked before taking a bite of potato.
“Long,” I said with a dramatic sigh, and he chuckled. “But good. I’m learning so much working with Mila at the clinic too.”
I went on to enthusiastically describe some of the new therapy techniques I’d been able to observe and assist with. Brahms listened intently, asking thoughtful questions and offering himself if I wanted to practice.
“You’re going to make an incredible physical therapist,” he said when I finally paused for air.
I smiled, touched by how much he trusted me. Our easy conversation continued flowing over the rest of dinner.
As we finished up dessert, Brahms tapped his phone screen and soft music began playing from nearby speakers. He stood and extended his hand. “May I have this dance?”
Though he still needed the support of his cane, he was able to sway gently to the music as he held me. With my cheek pressed against his chest and his arms encircling me, the rest of the world fell away. I lost myself in the comfort of his embrace under the starry sky.
When the music stopped, he tilted my chin up. My breath caught at the emotions shining in his eyes as he gazed down at me. It would be so easy to give in to what was growing between us. But what if I wrecked this, wrecked us? I couldn’t handle losing him, the one person who really saw me, who remained next to me after our world imploded.
Brahms’s face hovered near, his lips so close to mine. I could feel the warmth of his breath against my skin, the heat radiating off him. The very air between us seemed electric, charged like the heavy calm before a lightning strike.
My heartbeat thundered wildly in my ears. His nearness overwhelmed my senses. I breathed in his earthy, masculine scent as his nose nuzzled mine. My skin prickled, hyperaware under his featherlight touch as his thumb grazed my jaw.
His gorgeous eyes locked with mine, bright blue pools I could drown in. In their depths, I saw my own longing reflected back at me. We balanced on a precipice, pulling inevitably closer despite the nagging warning in my mind to be careful, take this slow. But I was helpless, drawn to him like the tide to the shore, like matter sucked into a black hole. This felt fated, destiny manifesting itself.
“Sephie,” he whispered my name like a prayer, a plea, though I wasn’t sure what he was asking for.
I let my eyes drift shut as his lips brushed mine, tentative at first, then more insistent. Any lingering resistance melted away. I gave myself over to the singular focus of Brahms’s mouth claiming mine, his arms enfolding me like coming home. My hands slid up his chest, anchoring myself as sensations threatened to overwhelm me.
Kissing was a reunion of souls destined for one another. It was like finding a vital piece of myself I hadn’t even realized was missing. Our lips moved in perfect sync, as if we’d done this a thousand times before in another life.
This moment was ours, a suspended snippet of time where all that mattered was his arms around me and the feel of his hammering heart against my palm. I’d yearned for this without even knowing. We both had.
Yet, there’s that nagging voice cautioning me that this could end in tragedy, I just prayed I was wrong.
Chapter Seventeen
Seraphina
(Now)
Brahms: It’s dinnertime, where are you?
I sigh and glance between the pan and my phone. Brahms is like having a bored six-year-old who needs too much attention otherwise he might try to destroy the world or set the house on fire.
Not only do I not want to give him any attention, but also . . . I don’t have time for this nonsense.
Sephie: I’ll be in your room at ten, as we agreed.
Brahms: It’d be nice if someone ate with me.
Sephie: Move to the center and you can have dinner with the rest of our patients.
Somehow texting that makes me grin. I have the feeling that he’s squirming on his chair and figuring out a way to make me do what he wants.
“I can make dinner for you tonight, Ms. St. Clairmont,” Lucius, Brahms’s private chef, offers.
“It’s Seraphina,” I correct him. “And I’m happy to cook, but thanks.”
“They pay me to work for you too,” Lucius insists.
