Holland #2
His voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of the decade he was describing.
"I've been watching you build things since we were twenty years old.
I watched you win that competition with a design Callum still doesn't understand well enough to replicate.
I watched you build Crestline's entire aesthetic language while he took the credit, and you took the back office.
I watched you solve problems he didn't even know how to name.
And I watched you do all of it while he made you feel like you should be grateful for the chance to disappear. "
He took his glasses off and set them on the drafting table. He didn't look away. He looked at me, and kept looking, the way you look at something you have been trying not to look at for a very long time.
"His voice dropped, and he held my gaze. "You are not invisible. You never were. You were just surrounded by people who needed you to believe you were."
I didn't plan to kiss him. I didn't plan anything. I just stepped forward and closed the distance, and his hands came up to cradle my jaw, and his mouth met mine like he'd been waiting for permission he was never going to ask for.
The kiss was slow at first. Careful. His lips were warm, and his thumbs brushed my cheekbones with a purposeful gentleness, like he was making sure I knew I could stop. I didn't stop. I put my hands on his chest, felt the solid warmth of him through his shirt, and I kissed him harder.
A sound rumbled deep in his throat, a vibration that traveled through his ribs and into my palms, stirring an ache I had mistaken for numbness for a very long time.
His fingers tightened in my hair. I kissed him harder.
The city went on outside the windows. The coffee went cold.
The trace paper sat where we'd left it, the elevation half-finished, the glass connector still waiting to be drawn.
None of it cared. None of it shifted. I was the one who shifted.
Finn pulled back first. His forehead came to rest against mine, his hands still in my hair, his breath uneven against my mouth.
"Tell me what you want." His control was gone.
It wasn't just in his voice; it was in the slight tremor in the hand tangled in my hair, a current of urgency that grounded me more than any polished words could.
"I want you to stop asking me what I want and trust that I'll tell you if I don't."
A beat of silence. Then he laughed, a short exhale against my skin. "Fair enough."
He kissed me again, and this time there was nothing careful about it.
His hands moved into my hair and tightened, and I made a sound against his mouth that I didn't plan.
We crossed the room without deciding to, without breaking contact, my back finding the arm of the leather couch and then his weight against me and then both of us going down together.
I ended up in his lap, my knees bracketing his hips, my hair loose around both our faces.
He looked up at me. His glasses were gone. His chest was rising and falling hard.
"You're sure." Not a question. Barely a sentence.
"Yes."
He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.
The gesture was so simple, so ordinary, and it was the first time in years I had felt like something worth noticing.
Seven years, and Callum had never done that.
Seven years, and he had never once noticed when my hair fell in my face, had never once reached out to move it.
Finn looked at me the way you look at something you have been waiting a very long time to see clearly.
"I've wanted this for a long time," Finn said. "I've wanted you. And I'm not going to pretend otherwise. But I'm not here to push you into anything. Tonight is whatever you need it to be—or nothing at all, if that's what you want.”
"I want it to be real."
"It's real."
I kissed him again, and his hands slid under my shirt, and the heat of his palms against my bare skin made me gasp.
He took his time. He didn't rush. He explored the curve of my spine, the dip of my waist, the ridge of my ribs, with patience that felt almost reverent.
Every touch was a question, and every question waited for my answer.
I pulled his shirt over his head. He let me. His chest was lean and pale, and there was a scar along his collarbone that I'd never seen before, a thin white line that disappeared under the strap of his glasses when he wore them. I traced it with my finger, and he closed his eyes.
"College," he said. "Fell off a ladder during a site visit."
"You never told me."
“It never came up."
I kissed the scar. His breath caught, and his hands tightened on my waist. When I pulled back, his eyes were open again, and they were clear. They were full of a fierce, steady wanting I had spent years pretending not to see.
"Finn."
"Yeah."
"I'm not going to regret this."
"Good. Neither am I."
He unbuttoned my blouse slowly, one button at a time, his knuckles brushing my skin with each release.
When the fabric fell open, he didn't move to take it off.
He just looked at me, his gaze traveling from my collarbone to my sternum to the lace edge of my bra, and the look on his face was not hunger. It was recognition.
"His hands stilled on my waist. "I want to say something, and I need you to hear it. You are beautiful. You are the most talented person I have ever worked beside. And I have spent ten years watching you let someone talk you out of both of those things, and I am not going to pretend I didn't."
I kissed him instead of answering. I didn't have words for what he'd just said. I didn't have words for the way it landed in my chest—not as a blow, but as a truth so vital it felt like I'd spent a lifetime holding my breath for it.
He unclasped my bra with one hand, a practiced motion that made me laugh against his mouth. "You've done that before."
"I'm thirty-one years old, Holland. I've done a lot of things before."
"Confidence. I like it."
"Good. I like that you like it."
He lowered his mouth to my collarbone, then lower, tracing a path down my sternum with his lips while his hands cupped my breasts.
His thumbs circled my nipples, and I arched into him, my head falling back, my hair brushing his thighs.
The sensation wasn't a distant flicker of heat; it was immediate and grounding.
Just touch. Just his hands on my skin. Just his mouth on my body.
Just the simple, overwhelming fact of being wanted by someone who saw me clearly.
He laid me back on the couch, and the leather was cool against my bare shoulders. He hovered above me, one arm braced beside my head, the other hand still tracing slow circles on my stomach. "Tell me if you want me to stop."
"I don't."
"Tell me anyway. At any point. I mean it."
"I will."
He unbuttoned my jeans and slid them down my hips, and I lifted myself to help him.
The denim caught at my ankles, and he worked them free with a patience that made my throat tight.
He wasn't rushing. He wasn't performing.
He was just present, fully and completely present, in a way Callum had never been present in seven years of marriage.
Callum had always been somewhere else. In his head, in his image, in his next move. Even in bed, even in the dark, even in the moments that were supposed to be just ours, he'd been somewhere else. Finn was here. Finn was looking at me like I was the only thing in the room worth seeing.
He kissed the inside of my knee, then the inside of my thigh, and I made a sound I didn't recognize. His mouth curved against my skin. "I've thought about this. I've thought about you. For longer than I should probably admit," he said, his mouth moving against my skin.
"How long?"
"Since the Cantilever Competition. Since I watched you win a prize you didn't even get to accept and realized you were the best designer in that room and the only person who didn't seem to know it."
He kissed higher. My fingers curled into his hair—black, thick, and soft to the touch. "Finn."
"Yeah."
"I need you to know that this isn't revenge. This isn't me getting back at Callum. This isn't—"
He lifted his head and met my eyes. "I know. This is you choosing something for yourself. That's all I want it to be."
I believed him. That was the strangest part.
I believed him completely, without reservation, without the constant low-grade suspicion that had colored every interaction with Callum for years.
Finn had never lied to me. Finn had never made me small.
Finn had never asked me to disappear so he could shine brighter.