Chapter 12 #2
The second kiss is nothing like the first. It’s deep and hungry and she tastes like want, like need, like everything I’ve been denying myself for months. Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer, and a sound escapes her throat—a whimper, needy and raw—that goes straight to my cock.
Her scent changes. Deepens. The lavender darkens into something richer, headier, and I can smell her arousal now, thick and intoxicating. It hits me like a drug.
I’m still kneeling between her legs. The position puts my face level with hers, my chest pressed against her knees, and when she shifts forward her thigh brushes against my cock. I’m so hard it hurts, straining against my jeans, and I have to bite back a groan at the contact.
More. I need more.
My hands slide into her hair, tilting her head back so I can kiss her deeper.
She opens for me, lets me in, and the taste of her floods my senses.
I want to devour her. Want to pull her into my lap and grind up against her heat.
Want to bury my face in her neck where her scent is sweetest and lick the skin there until she’s writhing.
She shifts again—intentional this time—pressing her thigh harder against me, and the friction drags a sound out of my chest. Half growl, half groan. My hips jerk forward before I can stop them.
Mine. She’s mine.
But not like this. Not when she’s scared and overwhelmed and doesn’t know what she wants yet.
I wrench myself away.
We’re both breathing hard. Her lips are swollen, her cheeks flushed, her eyes dazed and dark with want. She looks like she’s been thoroughly kissed—wrecked, really—and possessive satisfaction curls through my chest.
But she also looks overwhelmed. Vulnerable. And I won’t take advantage of that. Not even when my cock is throbbing and her scent is everywhere and every instinct I have is screaming at me to lay her back on this bathroom floor and—
“Elijah?” Her voice is shaky. Breathless.
“Not here.” I’m surprised I can form words. My voice comes out wrecked, barely recognizable. “Not like this.”
Hurt flickers across her face. “You don’t want—”
“I want.” The word rips out of me, rough as gravel.
I press my forehead to hers, trying to steady my breathing, trying to think past the need pounding through my blood.
“God, Tessa. I want you so much I can barely see straight. But not in Ben’s bathroom when you’re scared and your heat’s coming and you don’t know what you want yet. ”
Her breath shudders out. I can feel it warm against my lips, and it takes everything I have not to close the distance again.
“What if I want you?” she whispers.
“Then you’ll still want me tomorrow.” I pull back far enough to meet her eyes. Force myself to hold her gaze instead of looking at her swollen mouth. “And the day after that. And I’ll be here. We’ll all be here. But I won’t be something you regret.”
She stares at me for a long moment. Then her expression softens—wonder replacing the daze—and she nods.
“Okay.” Her voice is barely a whisper. “Okay.”
Neither of us moves. We stay there, foreheads close, breathing the same air. Her hand comes up slowly—giving me time to pull away—and her fingers brush my jaw. Trace along the stubble there. Land softly on my cheek.
I close my eyes. Let myself feel it.
When was the last time someone touched me like this? Gentle. Curious. Like I was something worth exploring.
“You’re shaking,” she whispers.
I am. I hadn’t noticed.
“So are you.”
She laughs—soft, surprised—and the sound breaks something loose in my chest. When I open my eyes, she’s smiling. Not the polished smile she uses at town meetings. Something smaller. Realer.
“We’re a mess,” she says.
“Yeah.”
“This is probably a terrible idea.”
“Probably.”
“I don’t care.”
I almost kiss her again. Almost close the distance and lose myself in her all over again. But I hear footsteps in the hallway, and the moment stretches thin.
“Elijah?” She’s still touching my face. “Whatever happens... thank you. For seeing me.”
I don’t trust my voice. So I turn my head and press a kiss to her palm—the palm I just finished wrapping, soft gauze against my lips—and hope she understands.
I stand, my knees protesting from kneeling on the tile floor, and offer her my hand. She takes it, letting me pull her to her feet, and doesn’t let go.
We stand there in the tiny bathroom, her hand in mine, her scent surrounding me, candlelight flickering across her face. It should feel awkward. Cramped. Instead it feels like the most intimate moment of my life.
“Dinner’s ready!” Ben’s voice echoes down the hall. “If you two are done having a moment in there, the pasta’s getting cold!”
Tessa laughs—watery but real—and the tension breaks.
“How does he always know?” she asks.
“He doesn’t. He just assumes we’re all having moments all the time and eventually he’s right.” I squeeze her hand. “Come on.”
We walk out together.
The main room is warm, lit by firelight and a few battery-powered lanterns Ben found in a closet. Milo’s already at the kitchen table, twirling a fork through a bowl of pasta. Ben’s dishing up more servings, and when he sees us emerge—her flushed, me probably looking wrecked—his eyebrows go up.
“Good talk?” he asks, voice carefully neutral.
“Bandages,” I say.
“Uh-huh.” He doesn’t push, just hands Tessa a bowl. “Eat. You need the calories.”
Milo takes one look at us—Tessa’s swollen lips, the way she won’t quite meet anyone’s eyes—and grins. “Well, well.”
“Shut up,” I tell him.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I think lots of things. It’s part of my charm.” He gestures to the empty chair beside him. “Sit. Tell me if Ben actually managed to make this edible.”
“It’s pasta,” Ben says. “Even I can’t screw up pasta.”
“You screwed up toast last month.”
“The toaster was broken!”
“You set it on fire.”
“That was the toaster’s fault.”
Tessa slides into the chair beside Milo, and I take the one across from her. Our eyes meet over the table—a shared secret, a promise—and she smiles. Small, private, just for me.
I look down at my pasta so I don’t say something stupid.
The meal is simple—spaghetti with jarred sauce, the best we could do with no power—but it’s warm, and the company is good, and Tessa eats two full servings without anyone having to coax her.
After dinner, we move back to the living room. Ben stokes the fire while Milo breaks out a bottle of whiskey he found in Ben’s cabinet. “Medicinal purposes,” he claims, pouring four glasses.
Tessa takes a small sip and makes a face. “That’s awful.”
“That’s Ben’s cheap whiskey.”
“It’s not cheap, it’s practical,” Ben protests, settling onto the couch.
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.” Milo raises his glass. “To being snowed in with good company.”
We drink. The whiskey burns going down, but it settles warm in my stomach, taking the edge off.
Tessa curls up in the corner of the couch, legs tucked under her. Ben’s on the other end, close but not touching. Milo’s back in the armchair, and I’m in my usual spot by the fire.
The storm howls outside. The fire crackles. And for a while, nobody talks—just sits together in the warm silence, watching the flames.
Then Tessa’s hand finds mine.
I look over. She’s not looking at me—she’s staring at the fire, her expression soft and unguarded—but her fingers are threaded through mine, her thumb tracing idle patterns on my palm.
Such a small thing. But it settles the restless ache in my chest.
Milo catches my eye. Smiles. Doesn’t say anything.
Ben notices too. His jaw tightens, but it’s not jealousy—more like wonder. Like he can’t quite believe this is happening.
Neither can I.
“I should sleep,” Tessa says eventually, her voice thick with exhaustion. “I’m...”
“Tired,” Ben finishes for her. “Yeah. The couch pulls out, or you can take my bed again.”
She hesitates. Looks at me. At Milo. At Ben.
“Would it be weird,” she says slowly, “if I just... stayed out here? By the fire? I don’t want to be alone.”
The three of us exchange glances.
“Not weird,” Milo says. “We can figure out sleeping arrangements. Someone should keep the fire going anyway.”
We make it work. The couch pulls out into a bed—lumpy but passable—and we pile it with blankets. Ben takes the first fire shift, settling into the armchair with a book. Milo stretches out on the floor near the hearth with a pillow and a resigned sigh.
And Tessa curls up on the pull-out bed, wrapped in quilts, her freshly-bandaged hands tucked under her chin.
I should go to the back room. Give her space. But when I start to move, she reaches out and catches my wrist.
“Stay?”
One word. A question. A request.
I look at Ben. He nods.
I look at Milo. He’s already got his eyes closed, a small smile on his face.
So I sit on the edge of the pull-out bed, my back against the couch arm, close enough to touch but not touching.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
I don’t answer. Just stay.
The fire pops and settles. The snow falls. And eventually, her breathing evens out into sleep.
I watch her for a long time. The soft rise and fall of her chest. The way her brow furrows, then smooths. The small sound she makes when she shifts, burrowing deeper into the blankets.
I’ve spent most of my life alone. Quiet rooms and quiet work and the satisfaction of making something beautiful with my hands. I never minded it. Never needed more.
But sitting here, watching her sleep, feeling the warmth of her presence even without touching.
I think maybe I was just waiting.
For this. For her.
For the storm to bring me home.