“I can't sit here and pretend this is leading somewhere,” I say softly. “I can't promise you more than that. I can't promise you a future. I don't know what my life looks like after May.”
I force a smile that feels a little sad around the edges.
“But I also can't ignore this anymore. I can't ignore you. This is the offer on the table.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. Then his eyes flick to mine. “Alright. End of the season.”
I shrug helplessly.
“I know it's not much.”
“It's you,” he says immediately.
My heart stumbles.
“Oliver—”
“No.” He shakes his head. “Don't do that. Don't apologize for giving me what you can.”
“Okay,” I murmur, because the tenderness in his voice almost undoes me. “And remember, we need to keep this a secret.”
“Right,” he says with a crooked smile. “Just us. Just… this.”
“Just this,” I repeat, ignoring the way something tugs inside my chest. I stand, heading over to the counter to refill my mug.
I feel him move behind me. He stands up against me, slipping his hands around my waist, lips warm as he nuzzles my neck.
This is going to be anything but simple.
“What are you doing?” I laugh, but it’s shaky. I turn to face him. “We just agreed on ground rules, remember?”
“I remember,” he says, voice low as he plants a kiss near my collarbone. “But I also agreed to make the most of the time we’ve got.” The next thing I know, he’s hoisted me up onto the kitchen counter, hands sliding under the shirt I stole. “Starting now.”
My legs wrap around him, and we crash into each other, full of heat and need.
The coffee goes cold. But I don’t care.
28
left on the bench
RIVER BY JONI MITCHELL
It’s been a few weeks of whatever this arrangement is. A few weeks of stolen glances, secret touches, and hiding like we’re running from the law. It’s dangerous. It’s reckless. It’s so far past the line I can barely see it anymore.
And the worst part? I love it.
Not the secrecy, exactly. Not the lying-by-omission or the constant awareness that we could get caught.
But the feeling of it. The anticipation. The thrill of knowing something no one else does. The way my pulse kicks every time his eyes find mine across a crowded room. The way a simple text message from him can turn an ordinary Tuesday into something I spend the rest of the day smiling about.
Maybe I should feel guilty.
Maybe I should be more worried.
Instead, I feel alive.
For years, my life felt like something I was managing. Organizing. Containing. Every decision carefully weighed and measured until all the sharp edges were sanded down.
