Ispent most of the day watching Ansel and Nadine interact in a sweet, familial way that left an ache in my chest. Ineverfelt like I missed out because my mother left… But it was different to see such a loving connection between them.
Later, after Nadine had gone to bed and the house was quiet again, Ansel found me in the guest room.
I hadn’t bothered changing. I was sitting on the edge of the bed in his t-shirt, knees drawn up, still carrying the weight of that conversation. Still carrying the way he’d touched me like I was precious. Like hemeant it.
He stepped into the doorway, backlit by the hallway lamp.
“I can sleep on the couch,” he said softly.
“What?” The word punched out of me quickly. All I could do was look at him. At the way his eyes searched my face like he already knew what I needed and was terrified of overstepping.
“Ansel. I don’t want you too,” I whispered.
Silence. Nothing. And then, “Are you sure?”
I nodded. My throat was tight. “I want you near. I want youhere.”
That was all it took.
He crossed the room in three long strides, and when he sat beside me, I folded into him without thinking. One of his arms came around my back. The other cupped the nape of my neck, his fingers threading through my hair.
We stayed like that for a long time. Just breathing.
Then I tilted my face toward him — and he wasthere, already watching me. My heart stuttered. My lips parted.
He kissed me like it was inevitable.
Like we’d both been waiting for this moment, and every moment before it had only beenprelude. Soft at first. Careful. But when I made a sound in the back of my throat — something cracked open.
His hand slid along my jaw, then down my side. He kissed me deeper. Hungrier. Still gentle, but with this aching restraint, like he didn’t want to break me. Like he was trying togiveinstead of take.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured against my lips.
“Don’t you dare.”
His hands stilled.
“Ineedyou to mean it, Juniper.”
I opened my eyes. Found his, dark and wild and so,soloving. “I mean it,” I breathed. “I’m sure.”
His forehead dropped to mine, and he exhaled hard — like he’d been holding back forever. And then he kissed me again.
It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t rushed. It was deep, slow, and impossibly warm. His mouth moved with purpose, coaxing mine open, letting me taste him in unhurried pulls that made my knees weak.
He framed my face in both hands, thumbs brushing my cheekbones like he was afraid I’d disappear. When my breath hitched, he pulled back just enough to look at me — really look at me — and something in his gaze told me this wasn’t just lust.
“God, Juniper…” His voice broke like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to worship me or ruin me.
His hands trailed down, mapping me in patient strokes — the slope of my shoulders, the line of my arms — before settling at my hips, drawing me flush against him, my legs parting to straddle his waist. The heat of him seeped into me, dizzying, dangerous, perfect.
Every movement was deliberate. The brush of his nose against my jaw. The way he kissed the corner of my mouth before claiming it again. His fingers pressed lightly into my hips, not pulling me closer so much as holding me steady, like I might float away.
His lips didn’t leave mine as we leaned back, knees knocking, the narrow mattress dipping under our weight. The bed was too small for us to do anything without brushing against each other, but maybe that was the point — every shift pressed us closer.
One of his hands stayed cupped at my jaw, but the other slid over my thigh, fingers grazing the bare skin just under the hem of my shorts. Not grabbing. Not pushing. Just a slow, anchoring pass that left goosebumps in its wake.
I could feel the restraint in him — the way he kissed me like each second was measured, rationed. Like if he moved too fast, he’d burn the whole thing down.
