His fingers ghost over a particularly old scar, his brows drawing together.
“Lila…”
“It’s just part of the job,” I deflect, shaking my head. “You get used to it.”
His grip tightens, just slightly. Just enough that I feel it.
Just enough that I freeze.
His eyes flick back to my hand. His fingers linger, skimming over an old scar, his jaw flexing. A breath. After a long, loaded beat.
He exhales.
Like something is breaking inside him.
Like something clicks.
When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter. Rougher. Like he’s just now realising the truth himself.
“…I never should have left.”
The words are soft. Not even a whisper.
But they wreck me.
My breath catches. My throat closes.
All this time, pretending it didn’t matter. Of hating him for walking away and now?
Now he says this.
I don’t think.
I can’t think.
Because the next second, I’m kissing him.
Or maybe he kisses me.
I don’t know who moves first, only that it’s instant. Deep. Desperate.
His hands slide up my arms, fingers pressing into my waist, pulling me flush against him.
I fist his shirt, tilt my head, let him take more.
Because I need more.
I need all of him.
Ben groans into my mouth, the sound low, wrecked, his hands sliding into my hair, gripping tight.
He kisses me like he’s starving.
Like I’m the first thing he’s tasted in fifteen years that’s real and I let him.
Because I’m starving too.
Because maybe I never stopped.
