The wall inside me gives way.
I step closer. Close enough that her breath brushes my jaw. Close enough that walking away would hurt worse than staying.
“This isn’t just release,” I say quietly. “And that’s what scares me.”
Her hand comes to rest against my chest. Not pushing. Not pulling.
“I know,” she whispers.
I don’t give myself time to think. If I do, I’ll stop. I always stop.
My hands come up slowly, deliberately, cupping her face like it’s something fragile instead of the thing undoing me. My thumbs skim her jaw, feeling the warmth there, the slight tremble that tells me she’s as aware of this moment as I am.
I’ve wanted her mouth for weeks. I didn’t expect the wanting to feel like this.
“Look at me,” I murmur, my voice rougher than I intended.
She does, and whatever wall I’ve been holding up finally fractures.
I lean in, resting my forehead against hers first, breathing her in, steadying myself on the reality of her being right here.
I lean in slowly and gently press our lips together.
Her lips part on a quiet sigh, and the sound moves straight through me, settling low and heavy in my chest. It loosens something inside me I didn’t realize had been locked down for years.
I deepen the kiss, still unhurried, still controlled. My thumbs trace her cheekbones as I tilt my head, fitting my mouth to hers more fully. Her hands come up to my chest, fingers curling into my jacket, like she needs the anchor as badly as I do.
I feel it when her mouth opens for me.
The invitation hits hard.
A low sound leaves me before I can stop it, pressed straight into her mouth as my tongue slides against hers. Not taking, but learning.
She answers immediately, a soft moan slipping from her throat and into my mouth, and it wrecks me.
Nothing has ever done this to me.
My body reacts instantly. Heat engulfs me, but it’s the way the kiss grounds me that knocks the breath from my lungs. The way it pulls me fully into the moment instead of letting me escape it.
My hands slide from her face, down her neck, over her shoulders, tracing the curve of her body, like I need to know every inch of her is real. When I pull her closer, she comes without hesitation, melting into me, fitting against my body in a way that feels dangerous in its rightness.
I kiss her deeper, slower, pouring everything I haven’t said into the way my mouth moves against hers.
Her fingers slip into my hair, tugging enough to draw another rough sound from my chest. I answer by tightening my hold, one hand firm at her waist, anchoring her against me, like letting go isn’t an option anymore.
The kiss turns heavier, not frantic, but loaded. Each shared breath, each quiet sound exchanged, pulls me further from the man I was before her.
When I pull back, it’s only an inch. Enough to breathe. Our foreheads rest together, breaths uneven, bodies still drawn tight.
My eyes close.
“This doesn’t happen to me,” I admit, my voice low, stripped bare.
Her hands stay on me. Steady. Unafraid.
“I know,” she whispers.
That’s what breaks me.