Chapter 2
POV: Marina
He doesn’t sit right away.
Brennan stays standing beside the table, one hand resting on the back of the chair like he’s giving me time to decide if I want him there or not. It’s subtle. Polite. And somehow, that makes it harder to say no.
“I remember you,” I say, lifting my glass to buy myself a second. “You used to follow my brother around like a shadow.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “He let me think I was keeping up.”
I smile despite myself.
“You’ve grown,” I add before I can stop myself.
His gaze drops — not to my mouth, not yet — but to my collarbone, bare under the soft fabric of my top. When he looks back up, his eyes are darker.
“So did you,” he says, eyes dropping again, deliberate this time.
Heat blooms under my skin. I shift in my chair, suddenly too aware of my body, of the way the alcohol has softened my edges.
“You shouldn’t flirt with me,” I say.
“I’m not,” he replies. “I’m telling the truth.”
I huff a laugh, shaking my head. “That’s worse.”
He finally pulls the chair out and sits across from me, close enough that I can smell his cologne — clean, understated, familiar in a way that shouldn’t be.
“I heard you were coming back,” he says. “But I didn’t know when.”
“You were waiting?” The word slips out before I can soften it.
His eyes don’t waver. “I was hoping.”
That does something to me. Something small but dangerous.
I take another sip of my drink, then gesture to the bar. “Do you want one?”
He nods. “Only if you let me buy.”
I should say no.
Instead, I watch him walk away — the easy confidence, the solid line of his back — and I realize my pulse has picked up.
When he returns, we clink glasses.
“To new beginnings,” he says.
I hesitate, then echo it. “To new beginnings.”
The conversation flows easier than it should.
We talk about medical school, my return home, careful, circling, never quite touching the heavy things. He listens when I speak. Really listens. Not waiting for his turn, not trying to impress me.
Every now and then, his knee brushes mine.
Every time, I tell myself it’s accidental.
At some point, I laugh — a real laugh — and catch Clara and Angela across the room, watching me with identical expressions of triumph. Clara gives me an exaggerated thumbs-up. Angela mouths call me and then they’re gone, disappearing into the night without a word.
I turn back to Brennan, suddenly aware we’re alone.
“This is a bad idea,” I say softly.
He studies me for a long moment, then nods. “It might be.”
“I’m not looking for anything,” I add. “I can’t—”
“I know,” he says gently. “I’m not asking for anything.”
That disarms me more than any bold move could.
I let out a breath. “Then why are you here?”
“Because I wanted to see you,” he answers simply. “And because tonight… you look like you might let yourself feel something.”
My throat tightens.
Maybe it’s the alcohol.
Maybe it’s the music.
Maybe it’s the way he looks at me like I’m not broken.
I stand before I can talk myself out of it. “Walk me outside.”
The night air is cooler, wrapping around us like a secret. We stand close — not touching — the space between us humming.
“I shouldn’t,” I murmur.
“You don’t have to,” he says.
I look up at him then. Really look.
The boy is gone. This man in front of me is solid, present, real. His eyes hold mine, asking without pressure, waiting without impatience.
“Just a kiss,” I say, barely audible. “Nothing else.”
He nods once. “Just a kiss.” His jaw tightens, like the word costs him something. “Then don’t look at me like that.”
When his hand lifts to my cheek, it’s gentle. Reverent. Like he understands exactly how fragile—and dangerous—this moment is.
And then he kisses me.
Not soft. Not tentative.
It’s deep and sure and consuming, his mouth claiming mine like he’s been waiting years for this exact moment. Heat coils low in my stomach, tight and urgent, pulling a sound from my throat I don’t recognize.
Its been so long since I feel this way.
I gasp — and he takes advantage of it.
The kiss deepens as his tongue slips against mine, slow at first, then searching, confident, like he already knows where I’ll melt.
Our mouths move together in a rhythm that feels instinctive, familiar in a way that makes my chest ache.
My body answers before my mind can intervene — to the heat, to the pull, to the dangerous, intoxicating truth that I want this.
God, I want this.
My hands fist in his shirt without permission, fingers gripping fabric like I need the anchor, like I might float away otherwise. Every nerve in my body lights up, responding faster than I can think, faster than I can remember all the reasons I shouldn’t be here.
This isn’t nostalgia.
This isn’t escape.
This is want — raw and undeniable.
His tongue moves with mine like we’ve done this a thousand times before, like our bodies recognize each other even if our lives never aligned until now.
One of his hands is firm at my waist, pulling me flush against him, erasing the last inch of space between us.
I feel his heat, his solidity, the unmistakable proof of how real this is.
He envelops me, claims the moment — and it feels so damn good.
His other hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers curling there with a touch that is somehow both gentle and possessive, reverent and sure. Like he knows exactly how much pressure to apply. Like he knows exactly how close I am to unraveling.
When we finally part — just enough to breathe — I’m dizzy, breathless, my forehead falling against his chest. His hands don’t leave me. One still firm at my waist, the other resting at my neck, like he’s not ready to let go.
Like neither of us is.
My heart is racing, pounding so loudly it feels like it’s announcing itself to the night.
I start to pull back, the faintest whisper of reason surfacing — the part of me that knows this changes things.
He doesn’t let me retreat.
He steps forward, gently but deliberately, until my back meets the wall behind me. He cages me there without touching me again, his body close enough to make my breath hitch, his presence everywhere.
When he leans in, about to kiss me again, he stops.
He looks into my eyes — really looks — his hazel gaze dark, intense, sparkling with restraint that costs him something.
“If you don’t want this,” he says quietly, voice low and steady, “say it now. Because I won’t be able to stop.”
His thumb brushes over my pulse at my throat, like he’s grounding himself before he loses control.
I open my mouth.
No words come out.
Instead, my hands slide back into his shirt, pulling him down to me as I kiss him again, harder this time, needier.
I feel his smile against my mouth before he deepens the kiss once more.
And just like that, I know.
Whatever this is — whatever line I just crossed — there’s no going back.
When we broke the kiss again, his fingers lace through mine, warm and sure, like the decision has already been made and he’s just inviting me to walk into it with him.
“Come with me,” he says, already turning, already certain I will.
Not a question.
Something in my chest loosens — or snaps. I don’t know which. All I know is that I nod, because stopping now would hurt more than whatever comes next.
This would be a one-night stand. I’d never see him again.
Right?
I follow him out into the night like I’m stepping out of my own life for a few stolen hours.
The walk to his apartment is a blur of brushed arms and stolen glances, our hands never letting go.
Every step sobers me just enough to realize what I’m doing — and makes me want it more anyway.
The city hums around us, unaware that something fragile and reckless is unfolding between two people who should know better.
The door barely closes behind us before he’s kissing me again.
Harder this time.
Like he’s done pretending he has control.
A voice in my head whispered that this was a mistake. A louder one whispered that I’d regret stopping more.
I’m pressed against the door, his body aligned with mine, heat everywhere — his hands on my waist, my back, my neck — guiding without forcing, asking without words. I melt into him, every last doubt dissolving under the certainty of his touch.
He’s gentle.
And possessive.
The combination wrecks me.
His mouth traces my jaw, my cheek, back to my lips, like he’s memorizing me.
Like he plans to remember this. My hands slide up his arms, over his shoulders, feeling how solid he is, how real.
This isn’t clumsy or rushed — it’s intentional, reverent, like he understands this is more than just bodies colliding.
When he lifts me, just slightly, just enough that I feel how easily he can move me, a soft, startled sound leaves my throat.
He smiles against my mouth.
“Okay?” he murmurs.
I don’t answer.
I kiss him instead.
Brennan kissed me like I was oxygen, like I was the only thing keeping him alive. I wasn’t prepared for this intensity. My hands roamed over his body, memorizing every hard line of muscle I’d been aching to see beneath his clothes.
He lifted me as if I weighed nothing. My legs wrapped around his hips, and I felt his arousal pressing against me—undeniable proof that he wanted me just as desperately.
“You feel that?” he murmured against my lips. “That’s what you do to me.”