Chapter 8 Tessa
Tessa
The house is quiet in a way that feels dangerous.
Not empty.
Not peaceful.
Charged.
Lacee fell asleep an hour ago, her bedroom door cracked just enough for the nightlight to spill a thin ribbon of gold into the hallway. The dishwasher hums low in the kitchen. Outside, crickets stitch the dark together.
Sawyer stands at the sink, sleeves rolled to his forearms, rinsing the last of the plates from dinner. His back fills the small cabin kitchen. Broad shoulders. Tension coiled beneath cotton and skin.
I lean against the counter, pretending to scroll through my phone. I haven’t read a single word.
“You’re staring,” he says without turning.
I smile. “You have a sixth sense?”
“I’ve been stared at before.”
“By women?”
“By people deciding whether I look friendly.”
I laugh softly. “Do you?”
He shuts off the faucet and dries his hands slowly. “Friendly?”
“Approachable.”
He glances over his shoulder. His eyes are darker at night. Less guarded. “Depends who’s asking.”
I swallow. “I’m asking.”
He tosses the towel onto the counter and turns fully toward me. “You already know the answer.”
My pulse kicks. “That sounds arrogant.”
“That sounds honest.” He steps closer. Not close enough to touch. Close enough that the air shifts.
“You don’t think I notice?” he says quietly.
“Notice what?”
“The way you watch me.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “You’re imagining things.”
“I don’t imagine much.” His gaze drops to my mouth for half a second too long. “And I don’t miss much either.”
I push off the counter, trying to create distance. He blocks it effortlessly.
One step.
That’s all it takes.
He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t have to.
“You’ve been quiet tonight,” he says.
“I’m tired.”
“Liar.”
I inhale slowly. “You don’t get to call me that.”
“I do when I’m right.”
His voice is low. Controlled. But underneath it is something strained.
“Maybe I’m just thinking,” I counter.
“About?”
“You.”
Silence detonates. His jaw tightens.
“That’s not a safe topic.”
“I didn’t realize we were playing safe.”
“We are.”
His hand lifts slightly—almost touching my waist—then stops midair.
I feel the hesitation like a physical thing.
“Why?” I ask softly.
“Because this isn’t just about you and me.”
“I know.”
“You’re twenty-four.”
“And?”
“And I’m thirty-seven.”
“We’ve already done this math.”
His eyes flash. “This isn’t a joke, Tessa.”
“I’m not joking.”
“Then stop acting like the gap doesn’t matter.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It should.” His voice roughens on that last word.
“Because you think I don’t know what I want?” I ask.
“Because I know exactly what I want.” The way he says it makes my breath catch. “And that’s the problem.”
My heart pounds.
“What do you want?” I press.
He looks at me like he’s debating whether to detonate something.
“You. I keep telling myself it doesn’t matter what other people will say, but it does, Tessa.”
Every nerve in my body bursts into flames.
“You don’t get to say that and then step back,” I whisper.
“That’s exactly what I get to do.”
“Why?”
“Because if I don’t,” he says quietly, “I won’t stop.”
The air thins. My voice comes out softer than I intend. “I don’t want you to.”
His eyes darken instantly. He steps closer. So close I feel the heat of him through my thin tank top.
“You don’t know what you’re inviting,” he murmurs.
“Try me.”
His hand finally lands on my waist. Firm. Not tentative. My knees almost give. He exhales slowly through his nose like he’s trying to rein something wild in.
“Say it again,” he says.
“Say what?”
“That you don’t want me to stop.”
My throat goes dry. “I don’t want you to stop.”
The control in his expression fractures. His thumb presses into my hip, pulling me closer. Our bodies align. Every inch of him feels solid. Grounded. Dangerous.
His mouth hovers over mine. Not touching. But close enough that I feel his breath.
“You think I don’t fight this every night?” he asks.
“I don’t want you to fight it.”
“You should.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t do half measures.”
The way he says it makes my stomach flip.
“Then don’t,” I whisper.
His hand slides up my side, slow, deliberate. Not wandering. Not fumbling.
Claiming.
My breath stutters. His mouth brushes mine just enough to ignite everything.
He deepens it before I can think.
My fingers grip his shirt.
He groans low against my mouth. The sound vibrates through me. His other hand moves to my lower back, pressing me firmly against him.
His mouth leaves mine, trailing to my jaw.
“Tessa,” he murmurs, voice wrecked.
“Yes.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
His hand tightens at my waist. “I’m barely holding on.”
“Then let go.”
He stills.
That’s when I feel it. The hesitation. The wall. He pulls back an inch. Two.
I chase him instinctively.
His palm lands flat against my stomach, stopping me. His breathing is uneven now.
“I can’t,” he says.
My chest tightens. “Why?”
“Because once I cross that line,” he says quietly, “there’s no pretending this is casual.”
“I don’t want casual.”
“I know.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
His eyes flick toward Lacee’s hallway. “Her.”
I nod slowly.
“She already loves you,” he says. My heart aches at the truth in that. “She deserves stability.”
“I am stable.”
“You’re temporary.”
The word hits like a slap.
I stiffen. “Excuse me?”
“This job,” he says. “The summer.”
“You think I’m disposable?”
“No.”
“But you think I’ll leave.”
“You will.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
Something inside me hardens. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”
“I’m not deciding,” he says. “I’m protecting.”
“From what?”
“From me.”
Silence stretches between us. I search his face. “You think you’ll hurt me?”
“I think I’ll want you too much.”
My breath trembles. “And that’s bad?”
“For you.”
“I’m not fragile.”
“I know that,” he snaps softly. “That’s what makes this worse.”
His hand drops from my waist like it burns him.
He steps back, cold air floods between us.
“You don’t get to kiss me like that and then retreat again,” I say, steady but shaking.
“I do if it keeps things from breaking.”
“I won’t be someone’s almost.”
His jaw tightens. “I’m not asking you to be.”
“You are,” I counter. “You want me. You touch me. You look at me like I’m something you’ve already decided belongs to you. And then you act like I’m a mistake waiting to happen.”
He goes still. “I don’t think you’re a mistake.”
“Then stop treating me like one.” Silence hums. “I won’t beg,” I add quietly. “And I won’t wait around for you to decide I’m worth the risk.”
He takes a slow breath. “You are worth the risk.”
“Then act like it.” His eyes burn into mine.
“I’ve buried one woman,” he says softly. “I won’t survive losing another.”
The confession knocks the anger out of me.
“That’s not what this is,” I say.
“You don’t know that.”
“Neither do you.”
He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated.
“You think this is easy for me?” he asks. “You think I don’t feel it every time you laugh with Lacee? Every time you lean across this counter? Every time you look at me like you’re not afraid of me?”
“I’m not afraid of you.”
“You should be.”
“Why?”
“Because when I want something,” he says quietly, “I don’t do it halfway.”
My pulse pounds.
“Then don’t.”
The tension thickens again. He steps forward once more. Not hesitant this time.
Deliberate.
His hand slides to my cheek.
“You don’t deserve half of me,” he says.
“Then give me all of you.”
The challenge hangs there.
He leans down, resting his forehead against mine.
“You’re asking me to choose,” he whispers.
“Yes.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
His breathing roughens again. His lips brush mine again, softer this time.
Reverent.
Not consuming.
Not desperate.
A promise he’s not sure he’s ready to make.
He pulls back slowly.
“Go to bed, Tessa.”
My stomach drops. “That’s your answer?”
“For tonight.” I swallow the hurt.
“I won’t be your almost,” I repeat.
His gaze softens in a way that makes my chest ache.
“You won’t be,” he says quietly.
Then he steps away. I stand there alone in the kitchen, heart racing, lips still tingling. Tears burning behind my eyes.