Chapter 49
Chapter Forty-Nine
Roderick
She’s so fucking close I can barely think.
There’s something about the way she stands—arms crossed like a shield, chin tilted just enough to fake indifference—that makes me want to tear the whole performance apart.
Her gaze flicks to my mouth and back again as if she didn’t mean to, like her body betrayed her before she could control it, and, God, that one look nearly undoes me.
Kit Dempsey.
The only girl I’ve ever wanted to write a love song about.
The only woman who’s ever made me believe in something bigger than myself.
The only heart I ever broke that I still dream of holding again.
She’s right here, breathing the same air, trying to pretend we don’t remember what the other tasted like.
I shift forward. Not enough to make it obvious, not enough to break whatever fragile thread is holding her still—but enough that I can feel the heat rising off her skin.
May in Seattle isn’t hot, but inside this store, it’s warm, close, and thick with tension, and she’s standing so still, so carefully, like she’s afraid the whole fucking world might tilt if she moves an inch closer.
And maybe it would.
My gaze drops to her lips. Pink, parted, kissed once by me, and never again since I fucked everything up between us.
Yet, they’re seared into my memory like a song I never got to finish writing.
I want to press my mouth to hers and remember how she tasted back then, how we fit before everything cracked.
I want to find out if she still sighs when her fingers curl into fabric, if she still kisses like she’s trying to memorize every part of you with her mouth.
The tension between us is wildfire-hot and relentless, something pulsing just under the surface—like it’s waiting for one of us to move first, to strike the match. It’s charged, consuming, a pressure that coils tighter with every breath.
I want her so badly it feels like punishment.
“Kit.” Her name scrapes past my throat like it’s been waiting there all day, raw and sacred and slightly fucking dangerous.
Her lashes flutter—just once—but it’s enough. Her jaw softens, barely, and I see it. That moment. The one where she lets her guard slip for half a heartbeat, and I can feel the yes beneath her hesitation.
So, I move in. Slowly. Carefully. Like I’m stepping across a frozen lake that could crack beneath me.
I hover there, my face close enough that I can feel her breath fan across my mouth. She smells like old vinyl and something vanilla-sweet and familiar, like the memory of a teenage summer you never let go of fully.
And when she doesn’t move, when she just waits as if her body’s suspended in that impossible in-between—I kiss her.
It’s soft at first. Barely a press. Just the heat of her lips against mine, dry and hesitant, but it feels like touching something sacred, something forbidden, something I’ve been starving for without ever realizing how deep the hunger went.
She exhales shakily, and her lips part just enough for me to taste her.
The world narrows.
There’s no store. No albums. No ambient street noise leaking through the windows. There’s just her. The tension in her spine dissolves. The sound she makes—barely audible, yet devastating.
The way her hand curls in the fabric of my shirt like she needs something to hold onto, like she might drift away if she doesn’t have me to keep her grounded.
And, fuck, I want to be that for her.
My hand lifts—fingers brushing the side of her face, tracing the edge of her jaw as if learning her again. Her skin is warm, smooth, trembling under my touch. I bury my other hand in her hair, needing to feel her everywhere.
I kiss her again. Slower this time. Deeper. Letting the kiss unravel in pieces—like a song stripped down to its barest chords—each second tasting of memory, of longing, of all the things I never said when I should have.
And then—she kisses me back.
She fucking kisses me back.
It’s not sweet. Not soft. It’s burning with urgency that mirrors the ache in my own chest. Like she's been waiting for this just as long as I have, like her mouth remembers mine even if the rest of her refuses to admit it.
It undoes something in me.
I could lose myself in her. Right here, surrounded by bins of forgotten albums and dust-covered speakers. I could back her into the wall without thinking twice, press my hips into hers, and feel how close we still are.
I could slide my hands beneath that faded tee and reacquaint myself with every inch of skin I've missed—trace the curve of her waist, the line of her ribs, relearn her with my palms and mouth until there’s nothing left between us but heat and history.
And I know she’d let me.
That’s what wrecks me most because this kiss isn’t about that.
This kiss is about all the years between now and then.
It’s about forgiveness I haven’t earned.
It’s about the ache of having her mouth on mine and knowing I almost lost the right to it forever.
But God—I want more.
My cock is already hard, pressing uncomfortably against my jeans, straining with every shift of her hips, every quiet gasp against my lips.
And I bet she’s wet for me—fuck, I know she is.
I can feel it in the way she leans in, in the way her breath stutters when I deepen the kiss.
I want to slide my hand down, cup her through those soft, worn-in jeans, feel the heat of her and the way she’d pulse under my fingers just from being touched again.
I want to drop to my knees right here in this store, push those jeans down, and taste her until she’s shaking.
I want to fuck her on the counter, slow and filthy, until she forgets every reason she ever had to keep me out.
I want her legs wrapped around me, voice ragged, nails digging into my back, whispering my name like it still belongs to her.
Because it does.
Every part of me still belongs to her.
But this kiss—this fucking kiss—it’s not mine to twist into something more. Not right now. Maybe not ever.
It’s fragile. It’s full of every word we never said and every second we’ve lost. A moment teetering between redemption and ruin.
So, I stay there, lips brushing hers, hands buried in her hair, breathing her in like oxygen I’ll have to live without. Pretending I don’t feel the wild pull to take her right here against the bins of vinyl, to slide into her and remind us both of who we used to be.
Pretending I’m strong enough to wait.
Then she pulls back. Slowly. Carefully. Her lips still wet from mine, her breath shaky.
“We can’t. I have . . .” Her voice cracks like she’s trying to piece it together mid-sentence. “I have a boyfriend.”
I freeze.
She swallows. “He’s nice. He’s good to me. He wouldn’t hurt me.”
Not like I would, she doesn’t say out loud. My stomach drops.
The words don’t hit like a punch. They hit like surrender. Like watching someone walk away from the version of you that could’ve been enough.
And I hate that she’s happy.
Not because I don’t want it for her. I do. I want her safe, whole, wrapped in something that doesn’t ruin her from the inside out.
But it’s not me.
It can’t be me.
And, fuck, that burns.
“You and I,” she says softly, voice barely above a whisper, “we can’t, Roderick.”
Her eyes shine, full of everything we were and everything we’ll never be.
“You broke it,” she breathes. “You broke me.”
The words hollow me out.
My hands fall from her hair.
“If there wasn’t a boyfriend,” I ask, even though I know I shouldn’t, “would I have a chance?”
Her shoulders stiffen. Her eyes close. Her head shakes once, and it’s enough to flatten me.
“You hurt me so much,” she says. “I asked you not to come back. I begged you not to do this. But you always do. You do whatever you think you’re entitled to.”
I want to tell her that it wasn’t my intention to kiss her that way. That I don’t assume or feel entitled to her. If anything, I know I lost her. Me kissing her was . . . stupid in the most beautiful way possible.
I wish I could promise that I could fix me and us and be different. But today, I can’t do any of that. I’m too broken to know who I can be for her.
“Men like you . . .” Her jaw trembles, and I see her fight not to cry. “You love hard, but it’s reckless. Loud. All-consuming. You make a girl feel like she’s the only song in the world—then you disappear in the middle of it, like the music just stops and she’s the only one left listening.”
I stare at her, aching all over.
“If I wasn’t broken,” I whisper, my voice barely holding together, “if I . . . would you ever forgive me?”
She looks at me as if she’s remembering every version of us. The one that existed among lyrics, melodies, and danced barefoot in living rooms. The one that cracked wide open and never got put back together.
Her face folds like she’s breaking all over again.
“No,” she says, barely audible. “I don’t think I could.”
And there it is.
The final note.
The closing line of our song.
I nod once. I don’t say goodbye. I can’t.
I just step back. One foot. Then the other. Each inch of space between us feels like it’s slicing through muscle.
I walk out of the store without touching her again.
Without looking back.
Because I know if I do, I’ll beg.
And I already ruined her once. I can’t do it again.
I have to let her go.
Eventually, I have to understand that this is over.
But no matter where I go—no matter who I try to love next—she’ll always be the reason I pause.
The memory that won’t fade.
The melody I’ll always play.
The quiet space I still carry in a world that won’t stop moving.
The love of my life.