“Then I’d tell you everyone’s a little broken,” I answer. “Some people just hide it better than others.”
She nods, like she wants to believe that but isn’t quite sure she can. “I feel like an open wound,” she admits. “I’ve exposed so much of myself to you guys already, and I don’t want?—”
I stop her before she can finish. “Hey. You don’t have to finish that sentence.”
Her eyes are locked on mine now, and for a moment the space between us feels electric—every nerve alive. I know I’m standing right on the edge of something here, and I can’t tell if it’s smart to take the next step.
But then she leans in.
The first kiss is hesitant, like she’s testing to see if I’ll pull away. I don’t. My hand slides to the back of her neck, holding her just enough that she knows she can stop me if she wants to.
Her lips are soft, tasting faintly of salt and sweat. Her hands tremble against my chest, but she doesn’t stop.
I keep it slow. Careful. Gentle.
Every part of me is screaming to deepen it, to pull her closer, but I don’t want to take this further unless I’m sure she’s ready.
When we break apart, her breath is uneven, her chest rising and falling quickly. I’m hard—aching for her—but I don’t move.
She shifts in my arms, a subtle wriggle that makes my self-control strain, her nails lightly catching on my shirt.
“I want more,” I admit, my forehead resting against hers. “God, I want more. But I want you to be sure you want more too.”
Her fingers curl slightly in my shirt, like she’s caught between wanting to pull me closer and holding herself back.
I take her hand instead, bring it to my lips, and kiss across her knuckles.
“I better leave,” I murmur. “Before I end up begging you for more than you should give me tonight.”
Her lips part, like she’s about to say something, but she doesn’t.
I step back, every muscle in my body protesting. But I know if I stay another minute, I’ll cross a line I can’t uncross.
At the door, I glance back. She’s standing there in the kitchen, one hand pressed to her lips, eyes following me like she’s just as conflicted as I am.
And maybe that’s enough for tonight.
Because now I know—beneath all her walls, all her fear—there’s a part of her that still wants to feel something good.
CHAPTER 16
Sadie
The sound of Boone’s truck fades down the street, the rumble dropping into a low hum before disappearing altogether. I stay standing by the door, hand resting on the wood like maybe I could still feel the echo of him there.
It’s ridiculous.
I press my fingertips to my lips, tracing the shape of them like I could memorize exactly where his mouth touched mine. My skin is still warm there, maybe from the kiss, maybe from the way I was leaning into him like I had no self-control left.
The oven timer chimes from the kitchen, a bright, sharp sound that pulls me back. Right—the food I was going to reheat before I got distracted. Dinner, or whatever late-night meal this would have been, is technically ready.
But instead of moving toward it, my fingers trail down from my mouth to my throat, lingering where his hand might’ve been if he hadn’t stopped himself.
It’s… startling. How good it feels.
It’s wild—unsettling, even—that I can remember the last time I was knotted, but not the last time I was kissed. That the memory of teeth and bruising hands has stayed lodged in my bones, and not something soft and warm enough to melt steel.
I trace my lips again, like maybe I could trick myself into remembering more details. The exact pressure. The faint scrape of his stubble. The way his breath hitched right before he pulled away.
