So I move.
Slowly.
Cautiously.
Every step feels like walking into fire.
Maybe I’m scared he’s still angry.
Maybe I’m scared he’ll turn away.
Maybe I’m terrified that I’ve been imagining all of it—the way he watches me when he thinks I’m not looking, the way his breath stutters when I stand too close.
But I take one more step anyway.
Until I’m standing right in front of him.
Close enough to feel the heat coming off his body, close enough to smell smoke and soap and the faint metallic trace of adrenaline.
I lift my hand, hesitating for just a second before pressing it flat against his chest.
His heartbeat slams against my palm.
Hard. Fast. Real.
He shivers.
Just that—one slight tremor—but it’s enough to undo me completely.
“But you didn’t,” I whisper.
His eyes flash, dark and burning, before he reaches for me.
The phone drops from his hand, and then his mouth crashes into mine.
There’s nothing soft about it.
It’s fire and fury and everything we’ve been holding back for too long.
I gasp, but he doesn’t give me time to breathe. His hands slide into my hair, his body pressing mine back against the desk.
It’s angry, desperate, hungry—like he’s trying to erase every word he ever said that hurt me, every doubt he ever had.
And God, I let him.
Because this isn’t the kind of kiss you stop.
It’s the kind that consumes.
The kind that tells you exactly how much you were both breaking before this moment.
I always thought kisses were supposed to be sweet—
gentle, soft, a promise.
I was wrong.
This kiss isn’t a promise.
