Neither of us moves away.
I can feel her breathing. Shallow and quick, the way it gets when she’s trying not to let something show. My hand is still on the counter, braced beside hers, and when I look down, I see the fine dusting of flour on her forearm, the soft line of her shoulder, the way her hair has come loose from whatever she’d pinned it up with and is curling slightly against the back of her neck.
Two years.
Two years of standing right here and doing nothing with it.
“Millie.” Her name comes out low and rough, and she turns slowly, her back coming to rest against the counter edge so that she’s facing me. We are close.Very close.Close enough that I can see the exact moment she decides to stop pretending.
“Will,” she breathes.
I reach up and brush a strand of hair from her cheek, my thumb dragging just slightly along her skin, and the way herbreath catches at something so small hits me low and hard. She tips her chin up like she already knows what’s coming, like she’s been waiting for it as long as I have.
This time, there’s no careful distance left to measure.
My mouth finds hers in a slow collision that’s softer than the need behind it. I feel her hands fist in my shirt almost immediately, feel the subtle tremor in her fingers, and something in my restraint snaps loose at the edges. I step closer, crowding her space, my hand sliding to her waist and pulling her into me until there’s no room left for doubt or second thoughts.
The sound she makes against my mouth is soft, but it hits me hard enough to feel it everywhere. We part for air, barely, both of us breathing harder than the moment should justify. Her forehead brushes along my jaw, warm and unsteady.
“You okay?” I murmur, though my voice sounds rougher than I intend.
“Yeah,” she says, but her grip tightens instead of loosening, fingers anchoring in my shirt like she’s already decided we’re past the point of retreat.
That’s all the permission I need.
The next kiss lands slower, deeper, the kind that takes its time because it knows exactly what it’s building toward. My hands move over her instinctively, learning the curve of her waist, the heat of her back beneath my palms, and when she exhales into my mouth, it feels like something inside me locks into place.
I shift my head, changing the angle, taking more, and she meets me with a response that sends my pulse surging hard enough to blur the edges of the room. My mouth drifts along her jaw, finding the sensitive skin beneath her ear, and the way she breathes my name hits like a sharp, dizzying rush straight through my chest.
I guide her backward, inch by measured inch, without breaking contact, until her hips meet the counter. The solidimpact grounds us for half a second, just long enough for the reality of what we’re doing to flicker through the heat. Then I’m back on her mouth, hands framing her face, thumbs tracing the line of her cheekbones, committing them to memory. There’s nothing hurried about it, but there’s nothing tentative left either.
This isn’t a question anymore.
It’s a decision we’re both finally making at the same time.
Twodays.
Twodays from standing in front of my brothers and earning the patch I have kept her at arm’s length for. Two years of discipline, distance, doing everything right, so I didn’t risk the one thing I’ve been working toward since I first walked through the clubhouse doors.
Walking her down that hallway right now could burn all of that to the fucking ground.
It could put me on the wrong side of everything I’ve built.
The thought hits hard enough to slow my pulse for half a beat.
Then she looks at me likethat.
Like I’m already hers.
Like she’s already made the same calculation and decided the risk is worth it.
Oh, fuck it!
“We should…” she starts, then loses the thought when I press my lips to the corner of her mouth. “We should probably, um…” She swallows. “My room.”
“Your dad,” I say, pulling back just enough to meet her eyes.
“His door is closed. Fan is running.” She bites her lip. “But we have to be quiet.”
