15. Mary
Fifteen
Mary
Suddenly, the room feels smaller.
Warmer.
The lamp beside my couch casts a golden glow across the apartment, softening everything around us.
The bookshelves.
The faded throw blanket.
The family photos.
Even Kai.
Especially Kai.
“You know,” I say quietly, “you don't have to keep trying so hard. It's just fake, isn't it?”
The words are out before I can stop them.
Immediately, something changes.
His smile fades.
Not completely.
Just enough.
The teasing disappears.
Leaving something rawer behind.
More honest.
His gaze locks onto mine.
“You really think that's what I'm doing?”
My stomach twists.
“Kai—”
“You think I'm faking this?”
The question hangs between us.
Heavy.
Important.
Suddenly I can't remember why I asked.
Or maybe I can.
Maybe because I need to know.
Because somewhere along the way this stopped feeling pretend to me.
“Aren't you?” I whisper.
“No.”
The answer comes immediately.
No hesitation.
No joking.
No escape hatch.
Just certainty.
The force of it makes my chest ache.
“Kai—”
“You invited me in.”
I nod slowly.
“Yes.”
“And you're right. I don't have to convince you to spend time with me.”
A little of my courage returns.
“Conceited much?”
His mouth twitches.
“Nah.”
He takes a step closer.
“Not where you're concerned.”
The smile fades from my face.
Because he means it.
And that's somehow scarier than flirting.
“You've got me so twisted up I don't know which way is north anymore, Firecracker.”
My heart completely betrays me.
The room goes quiet.
Neither of us is moving.
Neither of us is breathing normally.
His hand finds mine.
Warm.
Strong.
Steady.
Like him.
“But even with your yes,” he says softly, “that doesn't mean I'm ever gonna stop trying to show you how I feel.”
Emotion rises unexpectedly in my throat.
Because no one has ever said something like that to me.
Not really.
Not said it and meant it.
How could he possibly know?
How could he know I've spent most of my life waiting to be with someone who didn’t just see me as practical?
Responsible?
The dependable one?
The nice girl?
The woman who gets overlooked?
I swallow hard.
“Why would you do all that, Kai?”
His thumb brushes across my knuckles.
A simple touch.
Yet my pulse jumps.
“Because you deserve it.”
The answer is so immediate.
So sincere.
That something inside me melts.
Dangerously.
“Look,” I whisper, trying and failing to sound unaffected, “you don't have to do this. I mean... I think I know where I stand with you.”
His eyebrows rise.
“Yeah?”
“The wooing?”
My voice wobbles.
“Unnecessary.”
A slow smile curves his mouth.
“Fuck that.”
I laugh despite myself.
“You are impossible.”
“Probably.”
His gaze softens.
“But you deserve somebody making an effort.”
My breath catches.
“Kai—”
“And I don't say things I don't mean.”
The room seems to hold its breath.
His eyes never leave mine.
And standing there in my little basement apartment, I realize something terrifying.
The scary part isn't how much I want him.
The scary part is how much I trust him.
Because trusting somebody means they can hurt you.
And somehow, despite everything, I don't think he will.
“Now,” he says quietly, squeezing my hand, “tell me what was really going through that pretty head of yours when you invited me inside.”
Heat rushes into my cheeks.
“Kai.”
“Mary.”
He's smiling again.
Not teasing.
Not exactly.
Something warmer.
Something that makes my knees feel unsteady.
He reaches up.
Slowly.
Giving me every chance in the world to pull away.
I don't.
His hand settles against my cheek.
Gentle.
Careful.
Like I'm something precious.
The look in his eyes steals every coherent thought from my brain.
“You're beautiful, you know that?”
My breath leaves me.
No man has ever looked at me the way Kai is looking at me now.
Like I'm exactly what he wants.
Like I'm enough.
More than enough.
His thumb brushes softly along my cheekbone.
And I lean into it before I can stop myself.
The smile he gives me afterward is devastating.
“There she is.”
“Who?”
“The woman who keeps pretending she doesn't know what she does to me.”
My heart stumbles.
“Kai...”
He lowers his forehead to mine.
The intimacy of it nearly undoes me.
No rush.
No pressure.
Just warmth.
And patience.
And wanting.
“Tell me, Firecracker.”
“I invited you in because I, I didn’t want this night to end.”
“And?”
“And because I liked the kiss we shared.”
“And?”
“And… because I want more, Kai. I, I want you.”
When his lips finally meet mine, the kiss is slow.
Tender.
Intentional.
The kind of kiss that says I'm here.
The kind that says I want you and I'm not leaving.
Not yet.
He deepens the kiss, and a soft sound escapes me before I can stop it.
The man kisses with purpose.
Like he's trying to learn me.
Memorize me.
Like every second matters.
My fingers curl into the front of his shirt, holding on as the world tilts pleasantly beneath my feet.
And maybe that's dramatic.
Maybe it's ridiculous.
I don't even care.
Because Kai is looking at me like I'm something precious.
Something worth wanting.
Something worth waiting for.
The realization steals the breath right out of my lungs.
For so long, I've been the dependable one.
The practical one.
The woman men overlooked.
The woman who helped everybody else find their happily-ever-after while quietly wondering when it might be her turn.
Now his hands are resting at my waist.
His forehead brushing mine.
His breathing just as uneven as my own.
And for the first time in years, I don't feel invisible.
I feel seen.
Really seen.
His gaze searches my face, lingering there as though he's afraid he'll miss something important.
“Hey,” he murmurs.
The word is rough.
Tender.
Dangerously sweet.
“Hey,” I whisper back.
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
The look in his eyes makes my pulse stumble.
Not because of what he wants from me.
But because of how carefully he's holding himself back.
As if giving me room to change my mind matters more than what he wants.
As if I matter more than what he wants.
The thought wrecks me.
My hands slide higher, settling against his shoulders.
Solid.
Warm.
Safe.
And suddenly I understand why women write songs about men like Kai Montego.
Why they write poems.
Why they make terrible decisions.
Because standing here wrapped up in his arms feels a little like coming home.
His thumb brushes lightly against my side.
A tiny touch.
Barely anything.
Yet it sends a shiver racing through me.
His eyes darken when he notices.
Not predatory.
Not possessive.
Just honest.
Just wanting.
And somehow that makes it even harder to look away.
I lean closer.
He meets me halfway.
The next kiss is slower.
Deeper.
Full of everything neither of us has quite figured out how to say yet.
And when I melt against him, I don't do it because I'm afraid he'll disappear.
I do it because for the first time in a very long time, I feel wanted.
Desired.
Chosen.
Like someone looked at all my flaws, all my fears, all my messy complicated pieces—and stayed, anyway.
And that feeling?
It's better than anything I ever imagined.