I do not fully respect it, but that's my business.
"I'll still come see your dad. We're fine."
"That's not..." His hand comes up like he's going to touch something, and then doesn't. "It's not that I don't want you."
"Callahan."
I say his name the same way I always do. All I want is to throw a "Cal" his way, unbothered, but my brain won't cooperate.
"You don't have to save my pride. Truly. I'm a big girl, believe it or not."
And then his hands are on my face. I have approximately half a second to register what's happening before he's rightthere, close enough that I can see the exact color of his eyes in the afternoon light. Sea-green with golden edges, positively on fire.
"You keep saying I don't want you and it drives me mad."
He says it through gritted teeth, his grip tightening just barely, like he needs me to stay still and hear it.
"You know what you do to me. You know damn well what you do to me by just existing in the same goddamn town."
His forehead drops to mine and I stop breathing. Just this. Just him. Just the quiet collapse of every wall I'd tried to put between us.
"Just stop saying that," he pleads. "When you know what you do."
I’m in free fall. Heart pounding, breath shallow, everything in me leaning toward him like he's gravity.
"And what do I do, exactly?" I whisper it, because apparently I'm going to keep talking until someone stops me.
"Drive me fucking crazy."
Then he kisses me. This is not the impulsive kiss of the firehouse. This is a man who has made a choice.
His mouth is on mine without hesitation, and my back hits the porch wall behind me before I've entirely processed the sequence of events that led there.
I kiss him back because there is no version of me that doesn't, and his hands move from my face into my hair, getting tangled in it like he doesn't care what it takes to undo.
I'm dimly aware that I have my fingers in his hair and I'm pulling him closer, which is unnecessary given how little space remains between us.
The kiss goes long and deep and a little desperate. The kind that carries the weight of the time since our first kiss, and the six months before that, and every charged, maddening interaction in between.
His mouth moves to my jaw, then down to my neck. He murmurs something against my skin that I don't quite catch, and when I tilt my head, his hands slide under the hem of my shirt.
He finds the curve of my shoulder and lingers there, warm and open. For a few minutes, the whole afternoon narrows down to just this. Just here. Just the specific, concentrated reality of Callahan with his hands under my shirt and his body pressed against mine.
Then he pulls back, this time gentler. Neither of us says anything for what is probably a very short amount of time, but feels considerably longer. His hands are still under my shirt. My fingers are still loosely in his hair.
"Hi," I say, because I have to say something.
He makes a sound that could generously be called a laugh. "Hi."
We stay like that for another moment. His thumb moves once against my ribs, and I close my eyes.
"People can see the porch from the street," I manage, steadier than I deserve credit for.
His forehead rolls against mine as he curses once, and his hands slip out from under my shirt so he can push them through his own hair instead. He steps back, and I miss his warmth the second I lose it.
His hand comes up, brushes a strand of hair from my face, tucks it back carefully. He follows the movement with his eyes, watching where my hair falls. The tenderness of itafter everything else is almost worse. Almost harder to survive than the kiss.
"Go inside."
