Chapter Fifteen — Tessa #2
“A magician?”
“I had range.”
“What kind of magic?”
“Card tricks.”
“Were you good?”
“No.”
“Excellent.”
“My mother applauded anyway.”
His smile softened at the memory.
“Your mom sounds nice.”
“She is.”
“When do I meet her?”
The words escaped before I could stop them.
Rhett went still.
So did I.
The question hung between us.
Too intimate.
Too future-shaped.
I opened my mouth.
“I meant—”
“Soon.”
I stopped.
He did not look frightened.
He looked pleased.
That was worse.
“Soon?” I repeated.
“If you want.”
“I did not say I wanted.”
“You asked.”
“I was curious.”
“Curiosity is how everything started.”
“The fire started because you put metal in a toaster.”
“Romantically, it started there.”
“That is not romantic.”
“You sprayed me with chemicals.”
“You were an active hazard.”
His grin returned.
But beneath it, something remained.
The possibility.
His mother.
A real introduction.
A step no longer contained by campus or publicity.
I looked down at our joined hands.
“Maybe,” I said.
Rhett’s thumb brushed once over my knuckles.
“Maybe is good.”
The projector light flickered on.
I looked toward the wall.
“What are we watching?”
He handed me the remote.
“You choose.”
“You planned a classified movie and now I choose?”
“I narrowed the options.”
Three titles appeared.
A romantic comedy.
An action movie.
And a documentary about competitive baking.
I looked at him.
“Competitive baking?”
“Strategy.”
“You want the documentary.”
“I want to understand your culture.”
“My culture?”
“Prepared people.”
I selected the documentary.
He looked triumphant.
“Manipulation.”
“Research.”
We shifted against the cushions.
The lights dimmed further.
Halfway through the opening credits, Rhett moved closer.
Not touching.
Waiting.
I leaned into him first.
His arm came around my shoulders.
Easy.
Natural.
No cameras.
No reason to perform.
For several minutes, we watched in silence.
A contestant cried over laminated pastry dough.
Rhett whispered, “This is more violent than hockey.”
“You have no respect for technique.”
“I respect fear.”
I smiled.
His fingers moved lightly along my upper arm.
A slow, absent touch.
Not designed to distract me.
Which meant it distracted me completely.
I became aware of the warmth of his body.
The line of his thigh against mine.
The steady rise and fall of his chest.
I looked up.
He was already looking at me.
The documentary continued behind us.
Someone shouted about butter temperature.
Neither of us cared.
Rhett’s gaze dropped to my mouth.
Then lifted.
A question.
Always a question now.
I kissed him first.
His arm tightened around me.
The kiss deepened slowly.
Not urgent.
Not careless.
But different from the storage hallway.
There, the energy had been adrenaline and relief.
This was private.
Unhurried.
He kissed me like he had nowhere else to be.
My hand moved to his jaw.
His skin was warm beneath my fingers.
He made a quiet sound against my mouth.
The reaction sent heat through me.
I shifted closer.
Rhett pulled back.
Barely.
His forehead rested against mine.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
He watched me for another second.
Then kissed me again.
My fingers slid into his hair.
His hand moved from my shoulder to my waist.
Steady.
Careful.
The kiss became warmer.
More demanding.
My breath caught when his thumb brushed the edge of my sweater.
Not beneath it.
Just there.
A boundary.
A question.
I leaned into him.
The room narrowed.
My body responded before my thoughts could organize.
That frightened me.
Not because I did not want it.
Because I did.
More than I had planned.
More than I knew how to manage.
I pulled back.
Rhett stopped immediately.
No frustration.
No persuasion.
Just stillness.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s okay.”
“I hate that answer.”
“Fair.”
I sat straighter.
He loosened his arm but did not remove it completely.
Giving me space without disappearing.
“I don’t want to do something because the moment is easy,” I said.
His expression softened.
“Then we don’t.”
“I also don’t want you to think—”
“I don’t.”
“You don’t know what I was going to say.”
“I know you’re about to explain that stopping does not mean you don’t want me.”
My face warmed.
He smiled faintly.
“Pattern.”
“You are becoming insufferable.”
“I’ve always been insufferable.”
“That is true.”
He leaned back against the cushion.
No pressure.
No disappointment.
The absence of both made my chest ache.
“What if I never know when I’m ready?” I asked.
Rhett looked at me.
“Then we wait.”
“That simple?”
“No.”
His honesty startled me.
“It won’t be simple,” he continued. “I’ll want you. You’ll overthink. I’ll probably say something stupid.”
“Definitely.”
“But I’m not going anywhere because you asked for more time.”
My throat tightened.
“You say that like you know.”
“I do.”
“How?”
“Because leaving would be easier.”
The words settled deeply.
He looked toward the projector.
“Easy is usually how I know I’m avoiding something.”
I watched him.
This man everyone thought was effortless.
Choosing effort.
Choosing patience.
Choosing me.
I took his hand again.
“Thank you.”
He looked at our fingers.
“You don’t have to thank me for basic decency.”
“No.”
“But?”
“For making it feel like a choice.”
His eyes lifted.
There it was.
The phrase that mattered most.
Choice.
Not permission.
Not obligation.
Choice.
He raised my hand and kissed my knuckles.
Gentle.
No performance.
The documentary ended while we were still talking.
About his mother.
My father.
Cam’s terrible dating history.
Paige’s betrayal through information-sharing.
By the time we packed the food containers, the student center was almost completely dark.
Rhett folded the blanket.
I stacked the cards.
One remained facedown.
I turned it over.
Something you are afraid to admit.
I stared at it.
Rhett noticed.
“Skip?”
I should have.
Instead, I looked at him.
“I’m afraid I’ll choose wrong.”
His expression softened.
“About us?”
“About everything.”
I looked down at the card.
“Law school. Boston. You. What if wanting something makes me careless?”
Rhett set the blanket aside.
Then came closer.
“Wanting something does not make you careless.”
“It can.”
“So can fear.”
I looked up.
He touched my cheek.
Lightly.
“You don’t have to choose forever tonight.”
“That is what Paige said.”
“She’s smart.”
“She gives you information.”
“She contains flaws.”
I smiled.
Then he asked, “What do you want tonight?”
The room was quiet.
The answer did not need to solve anything beyond the next minute.
I looked at him.
“You.”
His breath changed.
He did not kiss me immediately.
That mattered.
He let the answer exist.
Then he said, “Good.”
I stepped closer.
“Good?”
His mouth curved.
“Very.”
He kissed me softly.
No rush.
No demand.
Just the truth I had finally said out loud.
Outside, campus lights glowed through the glass.
Tomorrow would still have Boston.
My father.
The university.
The rumor.
All the decisions waiting.
But tonight, I had chosen something because I wanted it.
And for once, the risk did not feel like proof I was making a mistake.
It felt like proof the choice was mine.