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“It is.”
His hands stayed at his sides. His posture held steady. But there was tension under it now, something held in place by effort instead of habit.
“Evan.”
His mouth tightened once.
“I keep telling myself not to want things I already want.”
My grip tightened around the strap of my camera bag. “That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
“Maybe stop.”
His eyes held mine.
Neither of us moved.
Then I did.
I set my laptop case on the hood of my car. My camera bag followed. I walked back to him with my hands free and my pulse behaving like it had been handed a bad idea and decided to support it.
He stayed where he was.
I stopped close enough to touch him.
Not touching became ridiculous.
“Touch me right now,” he said, voice rougher than before, “and I’m going to kiss you.”
My throat went dry.
“Good.”
The first kiss outside Jazz, TX had been precise. Four seconds, then distance.
This was slower.
His thumb settled near my pulse. Then his mouth touched mine, and my objections lost their filing system.
He kissed like he skated. No wasted motion. Every shift had a purpose.
Evan did not take the kiss from me. He built it with me. Pressure, then space. His mouth over mine, then a fraction of distance. His hand steady against my face while I decided what came next.
So I decided.
I fisted my hand in his shirt and pulled him closer.
The sound he made was low and sharp. Almost a warning. Almost my name.
His other hand found my waist.
Careful at first.
Then less careful.
The concrete pillar was behind me before I registered moving. He had turned us without breaking the kiss, placing his body between me and the open garage like some part of him was still tracking the room.
