Chapter 19 #3
"When you said you don’t do half-interest, I realized I’ve been giving you exactly that. Not because I don’t want you. Because I’m afraid of wanting you."
The humor slips from his expression.
"I don't know exactly what this becomes," I continue. "But I know I don't want you at arm's length. And I don't want you thinking my silence meant no."
He studies me, searching for the loophole. I don’t give him one.
“I’m not trying to hide us, Benji. I just want to give whatever this is a chance to become something before I have to give it away like a door prize at the next block party.”
For a long second, he says nothing. Then he huffs out a laugh and looks down at the porch. "Jesus Christ, Carter."
"What?"
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "You really had to make me wait for the emotionally devastating version." Finally, he steps back, opening the door wider. "Come in."
The door closes behind me, and the quiet settles.
"Just so we’re clear, I’m not chasing you."
"I know. That’s why I’m here."
For a second, neither of us moves. Then he reaches out and rests his hand on my wrist, right over my pulse.
"Good," he murmurs.
And when he leans in this time, I don’t freeze. I meet him halfway, and God Almighty, he definitely smells as good as he looks. Better.
His hand stays wrapped around my wrist, thumb brushing lightly over my pulse. It's such a small touch, but it steadies something in me. For weeks, every moment between us has felt like standing at the edge of a diving board, overthinking the jump.
This time, I jump.
Our mouths meet, and it's nothing like the kiss in the laundry room. There's no hesitation. No panic. No last-second retreat. Just warmth and certainty and the quiet realization that wanting something doesn't automatically make it a mistake.
My fingers catch in the soft fabric at his waist, anchoring myself there. Benji exhales against my mouth, sounding pleased in a way that immediately goes to my head.
God. I hate how much I like that.
When he pulls back, it’s only an inch. Forehead to forehead. Our breaths mingle, warm and sharp.
"Still with me?" His voice has a low, teasing curl at the edges.
"I am," I rasp. Why is it so quiet in here? So hot? Where did all the air go?
Benji’s inviting mouth hints at a smirk. He leans in close enough that I can feel the heat of him against my chest.
"Good," he murmurs, voice roughening. "Because I was this close to reminding you what happens when you leave me wanting."
I swallow hard. "And what happens?"
His nose lightly brushes mine. "Oh, you know… things get very distracting. Very… slippery. You might not be able to think straight for the rest of the day."
His hand slides to my hip, thumb pressing into the curve above my waist. My pulse jumps. I want to move, but I don’t—don’t want him to stop.
He leans in again, lips ghosting over mine, teasing, deliberate. "And if I kiss you again," he whispers, "I might just finish what we started before. Right here. Right now."
I don’t answer. I can’t. My hands are already reaching for him, pulling him closer, and the teasing smirk on his face tells me he knows exactly what he’s doing—and loves it.
Benji’s smile deepens as he lowers his mouth onto mine, slow, heated, and full of promise.
He tastes so delicious I could swallow him whole.
His hand lingers at my hip. My heart thumps wildly, my stomach tightens, and I can’t stop the pull toward him.
I let my forehead rest against his, let our breaths mix, let the heat between us stretch like a live wire.
His grin is soft and teasing but patient, and I want it.
I want him. I want all of it—the danger, the mess, the possibility that he could make my life as complicated and exciting as he is.
"You’re…" I murmur, barely audible.
He hums against my temple, playful and knowing. "And you like it."
"I do," I admit. God, I do. And saying it out loud feels like surrender, but it also feels… right.
His fingers press a little harder, just enough to anchor me, and I finally let myself lean in. Not for another kiss—not yet—but close enough to memorize the curve of his jaw, the heat of him, the way he smells like sunlight and trouble.
"Carter," he says softly.
I want to answer. I want to pull him closer and forget the world exists. Instead, a car door slams somewhere down the street, followed by the distant rumble of an engine. Reality comes rushing back.
Reluctantly, I step away. Just enough to give us both room to breathe.
Benji's mouth curves. "Don't think this ends here."
I huff out a laugh. "I wasn't planning on it."
Heat and hunger flash through his eyes. For a moment, neither of us moves. Then he lets go of my wrist, and I immediately miss the contact.
Which feels unfair. I've spent weeks treating this like a problem to solve. Something to analyze. Contain. Avoid. But standing in Benji's foyer, watching him smile at me like I'm finally speaking a language he understands, I realize the problem was never him.
It was me. And for the first time since moving to Morningwood Estates, that doesn't feel terrifying. Just inevitable.