“Sometimes it’s not about finding a place,” I say after a long pause. “Maybe it’s about finding a person.”
Her head turns, her eyes meeting mine. There’s something in that look, something raw and unspoken that pulls tight in my chest.
“Is that what you’ve done? Found your person?”
I shake my head, a bitter chuckle escaping me. “Not yet.”
She smiles faintly, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. The firelight dances across her face, highlighting the softness of her features and the vulnerability she’s trying so hard to hide.
I don’t think. I reach out, my fingers brushing hers where they rest on the table. The contact is brief, but it’s enough to send a jolt of electricity up my arm.
She looks down at our hands, then back up at me. Her lips part, but no words come out.
“Indie,” I say, my voice low.
“Yeah?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. Instead, I lean across the table, closing the distance between us. Her breath hitches, and for a second, I think she might pull away. But she doesn’t.
Our lips meet, soft at first, tentative. Then the dam breaks.
She tastes like wine and something sweeter, something uniquely her. My hand cups her face, my thumb brushing against her cheek as I deepen the kiss. She makes a sound, a soft whimper that shoots straight to my gut.
When we finally pull apart, her eyes are wide, her lips swollen.
“That was...” she starts, then trails off.
I smirk. “Unexpected?”
“Yeah,” she breathes, her voice shaky.
For a moment, we just stare at each other, the air between us thick with tension.
“You’re dangerous, cowboy,” she says finally, a small smile tugging at her lips.
“So are you,” I reply, my voice rough,“city girl.”
She laughs, the sound breaking the tension and filling the room with warmth.
“Guess we’re even then,” she says, her tone lighter now.
“Guess so.”
We finish dinner in relative silence, the crackle of the fire the only sound. But the tension doesn’t fade. If anything, it grows, coiling tighter with every stolen glance, every brush of fingers.
When the plates are cleared and the wine is gone, I walk her to the door. The night air is cold, biting against my skin, but I barely notice.
“Thanks for dinner,” she says, her voice soft.
“Anytime,” I reply, meaning it more than I should.
She hesitates, then leans in, pressing a quick kiss to my cheek.
“Goodnight, King,” she whispers, her breath warm against my skin.
“Goodnight, Sugar.”
I watch her walk to her car, my chest tight and my mind spinning.
