"And when I fell apart in the shower, you didn't judge me. You just held me."
“Yeah, Len?—"
"And in the car just now, everything you said… you see me. Not the mess or the disaster. Just me."
I'm closer now, near enough to feel his warmth, to see the way his pupils have dilated slightly. My hand finds his, fingers lacing together.
"I've been so scared of choosing wrong again that I forgot what choosing right feels like. But being with you—" my voice breaks slightly, "—being with you feels right. Even when it's complicated. Even when it scares me."
“Nora,” he says, but his thumb is tracing patterns on the back of my hand.
"And you know what I keep thinking?"
"What?"
"That I don't want to be careful anymore. I don't want to choose safe over real. And you, Nate, are the most real thing I've ever had."
"Are you sure?" His voice has gone rough. "Because I need you to be sure. I need to know this isn't just?—"
I kiss him.
Rise up slightly and press my lips to his, cutting off whatever doubt he was about to voice.
For a heartbeat, he doesn't respond. Just sits perfectly still with my hand in his and tension radiating through his body. And then he pulls back, just slightly, his free hand coming up to cup my face.
"Nora." My name is rough on his lips. "Are you sober enough to know what you're doing right now?"
"Yes." I hold his gaze, let him see the clarity in my eyes. "I know exactly what I'm doing. I want you."
"If we do this—" he starts.
"We can't undo it," I finish. "I know. And I don't want to undo it. I want this. I want you. Do you want me?"
"You have no fucking idea how much."
"Then stop waiting.”
For one more suspended moment, he searches my face. Looking for doubt, for uncertainty, for any sign that I'm not fully present in this decision. Whatever he finds must satisfy him,because suddenly he's kissing me back with an intensity that steals my breath.
His hands slide from my face to my back, pulling me flush against him, and I feel every hard plane of his body pressed against mine.
This isn't like the shower.
This isn't careful or controlled.
This is desperation.
His tongue traces the seam of my lips and I open for him immediately, tasting him, drowning in the sensation of finally having this again. One of his hands tangles in my hair, tilting my head back so he deepens the kiss, and I make a sound that's embarrassingly needy.
We stumble backward until my back hits the wall beside the mixing board, and he cages me in with his body, one hand braced above my head, the other still fisted in my hair.
"We shouldn't—" he starts, but I cut him off.
"Shut up and kiss me."
He does. His mouth moves from my lips to my jaw, down my neck, finding that spot below my ear that makes my knees weak. I arch into him, needing more, needing everything, and feel him hard against my hip.
My pulse races. My skin burns.
