Suddenly, all those unsaid words push to the surface, fighting for a way out. My throat tightens with the urge to speak, but before I can, his fingers graze my jaw—slow, careful. His touch lingers, like he’s memorizing this, like he’s giving me the chance to pull away.

Then, with a breath that carries everything we haven’t said, he closes the space between us.

The anticipation builds, stretching thin until it feels unbearable. And then his lips press to mine—firm, certain, unraveling something inside me.

A subtle shift. His mouth parts, his tongue sweeping against mine in a slow, coaxing stroke that sends a shiver down my spine. My fingers tighten in his shirt, holding on as the kiss deepens, consuming and impossible to resist.

A quiet sound escapes me—surprise, need, something I can’t control—and he takes it, deepening the kiss, tasting me like he’s been waiting for this far too long. His hand slides into my hair, tilting my head just enough to take more, to let me feel the full extent of him.

The world fades—nothing exists beyond the press of his body, the slow drag of his tongue against mine, the warmth unfurling low in my stomach. This feels like an exchange. Confessions of things neither of us dares to say, but both of us feel.

By the time he pulls back, my breath is uneven, my lips tingling, and he doesn’t go far—just enough to let his forehead brush mine, his fingers still buried in my hair. When he speaks, his voice is rougher than before, low and warm against my skin. “Should I apologize for the kiss?”

That slow, teasing smile of his lingers just out of reach, his breath mingling with mine. My heart trips over itself, still catching up to what just happened.

I swallow, my fingers flexing against his chest, before I find my voice. “Would you mean it?”

His thumb skims the curve of my jaw, a quiet amusement flickering in his gaze. “Not for a second. I’ve been wanting to do this for a while. Do you regret it?”

Do I? I exhale slowly, my fingers still curled into his shirt as if letting go might make this moment slip away. There’s something about him—something that keeps me from drifting too far into the shadows of my own mind. “No, I don’t.”

Then, softly, I say, “Thank you.”

I don’t know what I’m thanking him for.

For the kiss? For everything?

For not letting me feel alone?

I don’t know what to say because there’s so much, and everything is too tangled in my head. Anything I say would be meaningful, though.

His fingers trail through my hair, his touch grounding. “Will you think about the therapist?” he asks. “I don’t want to pressure you or anything. But I just hate seeing you . . . afraid.”

Ah, the fear.