18. BAILEY #2
Heat flashes through his expression, quick and unmistakable.
His gaze holds mine, warm and too knowing. “Noted.”
The drive home is quieter than the drive out. Not awkward. Just charged in a way neither of us bothers to pretend away. Finn keeps his hand on the wheel, but every few minutes, his fingers flex like he wants to reach for me and is choosing not to.
When he pulls up in front of my house, the porch light is on. The street is quiet, with wet pavement shining under the street lights.
He walks me to the door.
For a second, we stand there facing each other, and the whole perfect date narrows down to this. My key in my hand. His body close. The cold air is doing absolutely nothing to cool me down.
“Thank you,” I say.
“For what?”
“All of it.”
His expression softens.
He steps closer, and this time I’m already moving toward him when he pulls me in.
The kiss starts warm and controlled, but control lasts about three seconds.
Then my back touches the door, Finn’s mouth turns hungrier, and his hands settle at my waist like he’s holding himself back by sheer force of will.
The sound I make is small and embarrassing, and apparently exactly the wrong thing to do if I’m trying to end the night responsibly.
Finn groans against my mouth. “Bailey.”
I kiss him again because answering feels impossible.
His hand slides from my waist to my hip, pulling me closer, and every sensible thought I have starts losing ground. He kisses like he’s been patient all night and is finally letting me feel what that patience cost him.
But he still waits because he wants me to decide. And somehow, that makes me want him even more.
Finn pulls back first, breathing hard, forehead close to mine. “I should go.”
I laugh, but it comes out shaky. “I thought I was supposed to say that.”
“You’re welcome to.”
“I should go inside.”
“You are inside-adjacent.”
“This is not helping.”
“No.”
His mouth brushes mine again, lighter this time, and I almost change my mind. I can feel the clean line I meant to draw blurring under his hands and his mouth, and the way he looks at me like he wants every part of the night I’m trying to stop.
I put one hand against his chest.
He stills immediately.
“I should go in,” I say.
His eyes hold mine, hot and steady. “Okay.”
Just that.
No pushing. No disappointment dressed up as charm. No making me feel like I’ve invited him this far and now owe him the rest.
I swallow. “It’s not because I don’t want to.”
His mouth curves, but there’s nothing smug in it. “I know.”
“You’re very confident.”
“Not about everything.”
That quiets me.
He reaches up, brushing his thumb along my jaw once before dropping his hand. “But about that? Yeah. I know.”
I should object, but I don’t because I know he’s right.
I want him. Badly. Enough that stopping feels less like strength and more like a punishment I invented for myself.
“Date two was good,” I say, because I need something safer than please come inside.
His smile softens. “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Good enough for date three?”
I open my door, using the movement to buy myself a second. “I’ll check my schedule.”
“Cold.”
“Responsible.”
“Same thing in your language.”
I point at him. “Good night, Finn.”
“Good night, Bailey.”
I step inside before I can change my mind.
The door closes between us.
For a few seconds, I stand in the quiet entryway with my back against it, my lips still warm, my body still very much in favor of terrible decisions.
Outside, Finn’s footsteps move down the porch.
Then his truck starts, and he drives away.
I make it exactly four minutes before I regret being responsible.
My brain, because it has no interest in making this easy for me, goes straight back to San Francisco.
I remember his hands. Careful at first, then less careful when I showed him I wanted that too. Gentle enough afterward that I hadn’t known what to do with the tenderness.
This is exactly why I stopped things tonight.
Because with Finn, wanting doesn’t stay in one category.
It starts physical. His mouth. His hands. The hard line of his body. That grin. Then it turns into him remembering my shoulders hurt and booking enzyme baths. Into live music and dancing. Into him asking if I’m okay because he notices when I get too quiet.
Casual would be easier to manage.
Finn is not acting casual.
And I’m running out of ways to pretend I am.
Upstairs, I change into sleep shorts and an oversized T-shirt, then fall back onto the mattress and stare at the ceiling.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
I grab it too fast, which is embarrassing, even though no one is here to witness it.
Finn: Home. Behaving. Mostly.
A laugh slips out of me, soft and helpless.
Me: Congratulations on your personal growth.
His reply comes a few seconds later.
Finn: Painful. Heroic. Underappreciated.
I smile at the screen, and that is its own problem.
Me: I appreciated date two.
The three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Finn: Yeah?
One word, and somehow I can hear the change in his voice.
Not cocky. Not teasing.
Hopeful, maybe.
Me: Yeah.
His response takes longer this time.
Finn: Goodnight, Bailey.
I stare at it until the screen dims.
Then I type back.
Me: Goodnight, Finn.
I set the phone down and roll onto my back again.
The house is quiet. My body is restless. My mouth still remembers his.
I stopped things on the porch because it was smart. Because I needed space. Because wanting Finn is already complicated enough when my clothes are on.
But lying here alone, with the scent of cedar still faintly clinging to my skin and his kiss still warming my mouth, I can admit one thing to the dark.
I wish I hadn’t.