Is he afraid I’m thinking about Lance? Or just about that night?
“You think like a surgeon,” Henry says.
I widen my eyes. “That’s not what I expected you to say. And how would you even know? You’ve known me for approximately five minutes.”
“I paid attention for every second of those five minutes,” he says. “I know it must seem like I didn’t, that I was in all of it for myself. But it meant something to me, Tabitha. I just didn’t realize that until it was too late.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I stare at the fire. The logs settle, and a shower of sparks leaps up.
He swallows. “Tabs.”
“Don’t—” I start, because Angie’s nickname will undo me, and then I don’t finish the sentence because he’s leaning in, slower than slow.
This kiss is the opposite of a storm. It’s sunrise. Soft light over a field that was wrecked last night and is still here anyway. He moves his mouth against mine like he’s memorizing the shape of my lips, the feel of them against his own. He strokes my jaw with his thumb and then moves to my cheek.
I kiss him back as if we’ve been doing this forever. Warm and sure.
He shifts closer, knees bumping mine, and I sigh.
We end up half-leaning, half-kneeling, both of us angling for the same spot on the rug. He laughs against my mouth and eases me backward until my shoulder meets the couch. The cushion gives.
“Tell me to stop,” he says.
I meet his gaze. “Why on earth would I do that?”
He smiles.
We climb up together and end up tangled on the couch, my legs over his thighs, his arm behind my head. The rain starts again. It’s not a storm this time, just a soft patter, like someone drumming fingers on the roof.
The room shrinks to the span of his body and mine, to the heat where we touch, to the steady thud of a choice that doesn’t feel like a cliff anymore.
It feels like a door.
A door I want to open.
And maybe he does too.
Twenty-Four
Henry
Every ounce of restraint I’ve been clinging to feels like it’s hanging by a thread.
Her words echo…
I don’t want safe. I want you.
If she knew what she was asking, she’d take it back. Because wanting me means wanting the dark edges too. The noise in my head. The blood on my hands. The part of me that’s scared to let her in because I might break her too.
Her hair is loose, a little wild from the hike.
I rub my hands over my face. “We should think about lunch,” I mutter. “Or dinner.”
She doesn’t move. Just looks at me, steady and unblinking. “I don’t want lunch or dinner. Not yet.”
My jaw ticks. The part of me that’s still trying to be noble wants to keep my distance. To stand up and walk out into the rain-soaked night until the fire dies down and so does this craving. But the rest of me—the bigger, hungrier part—wants to throw her down on the rug and take her until neither of us remembers what safe ever looked like.
“Tabitha.” My voice is low, rough. “I can’t…”
