Chapter Eighteen | Almost Everything
I took a breath—deep, steadying.
All I had wanted for so long was unfolding right in front of me, and yet a flicker of doubt pressed against my ribs. Was this the start of something real, or just another moment on his terms? Was I just another fleeting connection, or was there truth behind the way he looked at me, the way he held me like I was something precious?
Still, there was that undeniable, ever-present sense—that we were meant to find each other. Not always in the right place or at the right time, but always circling, like gravity pulling two objects into the same orbit. Even if we’d already chosen other paths.
I watched him closely. He was different in this light—softer. The edges dulled. His eyes no longer guarded, but clear, focused only on me. He wasn’t doing this out of boredom or curiosity. I could feel it. This was affection. Real and quiet.
His hand released my wrist and moved gently to my jaw. His touch was deliberate, yet unhurried, as if memorizing the shape of me. He tucked a strand of my damp hair behind my ear, curling it around his finger. The breath between us grew heavier, charged. Something unspoken hung in the air.
I wasn’t sure who moved first, only that I was suddenly against the wall, his body close, his presence unmistakable. My hands found his waist instinctively, holding myself there, waiting—always waiting for him to lead.
“I missed you,” he said. Low. Unmistakable. Again.
My breath caught. He rarely said anything that vulnerable aloud, or twice. It was always in his gestures, never his words. I wanted to say it back. God, I did. But fear kept my lips still.
And then he lifted me. My legs wrapped around him easily, like my body had always known where to go. He carried me across the room, settling me gently on the edge of the desk, now eye level with him. I leaned back slightly, bracing myself with my hands, feeling the heat of him close, the tension in my spine pulsing with the electricity between us.
I arched forward and ran my fingers through his hair. The way he closed his eyes for a moment told me just how much he liked it, even if he'd never say so.
Our gazes locked.
He reached for my jaw again, thumbs brushing my cheeks. “Are we doing this?” he asked, careful but sure.
I nodded slowly.
When our lips finally met, it felt like exhaling after holding my breath too long. Gentle at first, exploratory—then deeper. His hands slid to my waist, pulling me closer, anchoring me to him. My hands stayed in his hair, grounding me in the moment.
This wasn’t just desire. It was something more fragile, more rare—an unspoken truth passed between bodies.
Still clothed, he guided me from the desk to the bed, laying me down slowly, like something he didn’t want to break. I reached for him—his arms, his shoulders, his chest—tracing the lines of someone I knew but was still learning all over again.
He moved carefully, hands skimming beneath my hoodie, finding bare skin. He paused when he realized the bikini top was gone. A glance up at me confirmed what he suspected, but instead of a comment or a joke, he simply looked at me with something close to reverence.
We undressed quietly, naturally, letting skin meet skin without urgency. There was nothing rushed in this—only closeness, only presence. He asked me again, just above a whisper: “Are you okay with this?”
I didn’t answer right away. Instead, I placed my hand over his chest, right where his heartbeat pulsed steady and strong. I held it there, grounding myself. Then I nodded.
He leaned in, forehead to mine. Breathing in the same air.
And then, finally, we let the rest of the world fall away.
