8. Vada #3
"We should talk," Emory says, though he makes no move to stop dancing or create distance between us.
"Probably," I agree, though talking is the last thing I want to do right now.
His hand moves lower on my back, thumb tracing along my spine in a way that sends electricity through my entire nervous system.
When I shift closer to him in response, I can feel his sharp intake of breath and see the way his eyes darken with something that has nothing to do with the evening lighting.
"There's something I should tell you," he says, voice rough with emotion I can't quite identify.
"What?" I ask, though I'm more focused on the way his thumb continues its maddening pattern along my spine.
"I never really got over you," he admits, the words barely audible over the music.
My heart stops completely, then restarts at double speed. Because that's exactly what I've been trying not to admit to myself since we started couples' yoga just hours ago.
"Emory," I start, not sure if I'm planning to agree or protest.
"I know it's complicated," he says quickly, like he's afraid I'll shut down the conversation. "I know we said just friends. I know this is Jared and Erika's week and we're supposed to be supporting their happiness, not creating drama. But I can't pretend anymore…this feels like something more.”
He's right. Nothing about this feels like friendship. The way we're pressed together, the way his hand is stroking my back, the way I want to kiss him more than I want my next breath, this is desire and longing and something that feels exactly like love.
"What are we doing?" I ask, though I'm not sure I want him to answer logically.
"I don't know," he admits with a soft laugh. "But I don't want to stop."
The band transitions into another slow song, buying us more time in this intimate bubble we've created. Around us, I'm dimly aware of other couples dancing, of Maya watching from the sideline with obvious approval, of the spectacular sunset providing a perfect romantic backdrop.
My focus is on the way Emory feels against me, the way he's looking at me like I'm the only person in paradise, the way eight years of separation seem to disappear when we're touching like this.
"This is crazy," I whisper, but my free hand tightens in his hair.
"Completely crazy," he agrees, leaning down until his forehead rests against mine. "But I've missed this. I've missed you. I've missed the way everything feels possible when we're together."
When he says that, something inside me carefully controlled since college completely breaks open.
Because I've missed this too. I've missed the way he makes me feel like the most interesting person in any room, the way our bodies fit together like puzzle pieces, the way he looks at me like I'm magic he's still figuring out how to believe in.
"Emory," I say, and this time his name comes out like a prayer or a confession.
"Yeah?" he asks, and his voice is rough with the same longing I can feel building in my chest.
"I think—"
Before I can finish that sentence, the music stops and the band announces they're taking a short break. Reality crashes back as other couples begin leaving the dance floor, and we're suddenly aware that we've been creating an incredibly intimate moment in front of dozens of wedding guests.
"We should—" I start, though I have no idea what we should do.
"Take a break too," Emory finishes, understanding immediately that we need privacy to process whatever just happened between us.
He takes my hand and leads me away from the dance floor, past groups of chatting guests, toward a section of the beach where private cabanas have been set up for resort guests.
The cabana furthest from the party is empty and draped in flowing white curtains that create perfect privacy from the reception.
"Better?" he asks once we're inside the intimate space, though his hand is still holding mine and we're still standing close enough that I can feel his body heat.
"Better," I agree, though being alone with him feels both safer and infinitely more dangerous.
The cabana is elegant and romantic—comfortable seating, soft lighting from solar lanterns, sheer curtains that provide privacy while still allowing ocean breezes. It's the kind of setting designed for intimate conversations or romantic encounters, and we're very much alone.
"So," he says, settling beside me on the plush seating, “something happened."
"Something definitely happened," I agree, hyper aware of how close we're sitting and the way our hands are still connected.
"I meant what I said," Emory continues, turning to face me fully. "About not getting over you. About missing this."
My heart is racing so fast I'm surprised he can't hear it over the sound of waves and distant party music.
Because I want to tell him that I feel the same way, that seeing him again has made me realize how much I've been missing, that dancing with him tonight felt like coming home to something I didn't realize I'd lost.
"I missed it too," I admit, the words coming out in a rush before I can second-guess them. "I missed the way you make everything feel like an adventure, the way you see the best in everyone, the way you used to look at me like I was your favorite discovery."
"Used to?" he asks with a soft smile. "Vada, I've been looking at you like that since the moment you ran into me at that cocktail party. You're still my favorite discovery."
When he says that, the last of my resistance crumbles completely.
Because this isn't just nostalgia or vacation romance or getting caught up in a beautiful setting.
This is Emory, the person who knew me better than anyone, who made me feel capable of anything, who's looking at me now like eight years apart was just an intermission in a story that's not finished yet.
"This is happening, isn't it?" I ask, though I'm not entirely sure what "this" is.
"I think maybe it never stopped happening,” he says with the kind of honesty that makes my chest tight with emotion.
And then, because we're alone in paradise and he's looking at me like I'm everything he's ever wanted and my heart is so full of possibility I think it might burst, I lean forward and kiss him.
It's supposed to be gentle, tentative, a test of whether this connection is real or just the product of romantic setting and shared memories. But the moment our lips meet, eight years of separation and suppressed longing and current attraction combine into something that's anything but gentle.
He responds immediately, his free hand cupping my face while his mouth moves against mine with the desperate intensity of someone who's been waiting much too long for this moment. I can taste tropical cocktails and something that's purely Emory, familiar and new at the same time.
When we break apart for air, we're both breathing hard and staring at each other with something like amazement.
"Okay," I say, my voice unsteady. "Friends don’t kiss like that."
"The question is, what do we do about it?" he agrees, his thumb stroking across my cheekbone in a gesture that makes me want to melt.
Before I can answer, he's kissing me again, and this time there's nothing tentative about it.
His hands tangle in my hair, pulling me closer as I press against him, desperate to eliminate any remaining space between us.
Years of wondering "what if" and current desire combine into something that feels absolutely inevitable.
My hands explore the familiar territory of his shoulders and chest, mapping the ways his body has changed while reveling in everything that's exactly the same.
When he groans softly against my mouth in response to my touch, the sound goes straight to my core and makes me bold enough to deepen the kiss.
"Vada," he breathes against my lips, and my name sounds like worship and desperation and coming home all at once.
"Don't stop," I whisper back, because stopping now would feel like denying something fundamental and necessary.
His hands move to my waist, then higher, thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts through the thin fabric of my dress.
The touch is light and careful, giving me every opportunity to object, but all I want is more of his hands on me, more of this connection that feels both achingly familiar and thrillingly new.
We lose ourselves in kissing and touching, hands exploring and relearning, both of us making soft sounds of pleasure and recognition as we rediscover how perfectly our bodies fit together.
His mouth trails from my lips to my neck, finding that spot just below my ear that always made me arch against him, and when he places an open-mouthed kiss there, I actually gasp with the intensity of sensation.
"You taste. So. Good." He murmurs against my throat, the words vibrating against my skin in a way that makes me clutch at his shoulders.
His hands slide under the hem of my dress, palms warm against my thighs. But when I should be pulling back or insisting we slow down, all I want is to encourage him to touch me everywhere, to make up for eight years of not having his hands on my skin.
"Is this okay?" he asks, fingers stilling on my thighs as he pulls back to look at my face.
"More than okay," I breathe, then prove it by kissing him with all the pent-up longing I've been trying to deny since the whole yoga thing.
When his hands move higher, exploring the sensitive skin of my upper thighs, I can't suppress a soft moan that makes his breathing become even more unsteady. Everything about this feels right—his touch, the way we fit together, the connection that's been building since we saw each other again.
But as I'm about to make a bold move, voices carry from the path near our cabana. Other guests walking along the beach, close enough that we can hear their conversation.
Reality crashes back as we both realize how public our location is and how carried away we've gotten. We break apart reluctantly, both breathing hard and staring at each other with wild eyes and thoroughly kissed mouths.
"We should probably…" I start, though my brain is having trouble forming complete thoughts when he's looking at me like that.
"Go somewhere more private?" he finishes hopefully, his voice rough with desire and suggestion.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and we extract ourselves from the cabana with the kind of coordination that comes from shared urgency. His hand finds mine as we walk quickly back toward the resort, and the touch grounds me even as my entire nervous system feels like it's on fire.
The elevator ride to our floor happens in charged silence, both of us knowing that we're about to cross a line that will fundamentally change…everything. When we reach our doors, we pause in the hallway, looking at each other with an intensity that makes the air feel electric.
"Your coming to my room.” His voice breathy and deep.
"Yes," I say without hesitation
He unlocks his door with slightly unsteady hands, and we step into his suite together.
And for the first time since I arrived in paradise, I'm completely ready for everything to change.