I know that. He knows that. There are kids inside this house who think we hung the sun and the moon between us. There’sa whole town that will have Opinions with a capital O. There’s my father, a looming shadow miles away, already sharpening his knives.
I also know that I have never, in my entire life, wanted to do something as much as I want to lean those last few inches forward.
“It’s freezing out here,” he says. His breath fogs between us, a small, brief cloud. “You should go in.”
“I’m okay,” I say softly. “You’re warm.”
His mouth quirks, pained. “That’s the problem.”
There’s a beat where we could walk this back. Where we could laugh it off and step away and pretend this was just two old friends on a porch talking about storms and life and how it got so complicated.
We don’t take it.
He moves first.
Slowly. So slowly that I have time to feel every micro movement. The press of his thumb. The warmth his breath against my lips as the space between us shrinks. The way his eyes flick down then back up, checking, giving me every chance to pull away.
I don’t.
Our mouths meet.
It’s a fuse catching.
Heat sparks along my nerves, wrapping around my spine, spiraling out to the tips of my fingers. His lips are warm and firm and familiar in a way that makes my knees weak, and unfamiliar in a way that makes me dizzy.
He kisses me like he’s afraid I might vanish if he presses too hard. Like this is fragile, and he’s holding it in the palms of his hands. His arm slides around my waist, pulling me closer, until there’s no space between us at all. Nothing but shared heat and the crash of our hearts against our ribs.
I make a sound I don’t recognize, half sigh, half more desperate, and my fingers are in his coat, fisting in the fabric, pulling him down. He takes the invitation and deepens the kiss.
The world tilts.
The porch railing is at my back suddenly, solid and cold, and he’s braced one hand beside my hip, his body shielding mine from the wind as if he can hold back winter itself. His tongue brushes my lower lip, tentative and asking, and I open for him without thinking.
Everything I’ve been holding in, the fear, the grief, the regret, the what ifs, rushes out and slams into everything he’s been holding back. His worry, his loneliness, his anger. The collision is dizzying.
I haven’t felt anything like this. Ever.
Not with Evan. With him, there was always calculation. Thought. A sense that kissing was a step on the correct relationship staircase. The right move at the right time with the right man.
This is… nothing like that.
This is falling.
This is losing track of where my body ends and his begins. This is realizing I’ve been starving and only just now found out what real food tastes like. This is dangerous.
His fingers slide into my hair, the rough pads of his fingertips scraping gently against my scalp. My locket is trapped between us, cool metal pressed into my sternum, a tiny anchor in the middle of all this heat.
Gran’s voice flits through my head, ridiculous and perfectly timed.
Don’t let anyone talk you out of your own heart, sugar.
My own heart is currently screaming,Yes, this. This, this, this.
Which is exactly why it’s terrifying.
“Dallas,” I breathe against his mouth, not sure if it’s encouragement or a plea for mercy.
He groans, a low, helpless sound, and kisses me again, harder this time.
