Dalton
Hampton, Virginia
I should go to bed.
That’s the logical next step. Say goodnight. Put distance between us. Put a wall, a door, an entire hallway between me and the girl currently standing in my kitchen looking like she’s trying very hard not to reach for me.
Instead, I’m still here.
Still watching the way she tucks her hair behind her ear for the third time in as many minutes, like she needs something for her hands to do. Still tracking the soft rise and fall of her chest like my brain has decided that is suddenly critical information.
I have been attracted to her since the beginning.
Since the first time I saw her sitting in the med bay covered in bandages and drowning in clothes four sizes too big, her shoulders drawn tight but her chin lifted anyway, like she refused to let the world see just how much it had taken from her.
I noticed then.
Not just that she was beautiful—though she is, in a way that reveals itself slowly, detail by detail—but that there was something mesmerizing underneath the cracks.
Strength she didn’t advertise. Grace she didn’t try to claim.
I told myself it didn’t matter.
That attraction is just biology. Proximity. Circumstance.
Then she kissed me. And hell if I didn’t kiss her back like it was everything I needed in the moment.
Now every self-preservation instinct I have is failing spectacularly. Because now I know what she feels like in my arms. I know the quiet sound she makes when she exhales into a kiss. I know the way she leans in, like she’s both certain and a little afraid of how much she wants it.
And now she’s looking at me like that again. Wide-eyed but steady. Hopeful but cautious.
And I am dangerously close to forgetting every reason I had for drawing the line where I did.
Kyler’s voice sits firmly in the back of my mind.
She may not be my wife anymore, but she’s still off-limits. If that’s where your head’s at, clear it.
It hadn’t been where my head was at. I planned to keep things simple. She’s been through enough. She needs stability. At the time, the promise felt obvious and non-negotiable.
Now she’s half a step closer than she was thirty seconds ago, and I’m having a hard time remembering why I thought that would be easy.
“You meant it,” I hear myself say, my voice quieter than I intended.
Her gaze lifts to mine.
“Yes.” Her voice is soft but there’s no mistaking the certainty in it.
Something shifts in my chest. She moves again, barely noticeable unless you’re watching for it. And I am very much watching for it.
The soft brush of her wrist against my forearm sends a slow, unwelcome awareness down my spine.
I should step back.
Instead, my hand settles lightly at her waist.
I give her time to stop me.
Time to pull away.
Time to remind me why this is complicated.
She doesn’t.
Her hand comes up slowly, resting against my chest. The contact is light. But I feel the impact.
Her fingers curl slightly into the fabric of my shirt, and I am suddenly very aware of the fact that I ran too hard after work, that I came home restless and wired and not nearly as in control as I usually am.
Her gaze drops briefly to my mouth. Then back up. The air between us feels thinner than it should.
“Ivy,” I murmur, more warning than anything else.
Her breath catches softly. “Dalton.” She leans in just enough that the choice is no longer entirely mine.
I lower my head slowly, giving her every possible chance to change her mind.
She doesn’t hesitate.
Her lips meet mine with a certainty that feels very different from the first time.
The first kiss had been careful. Gentle. Emotional in a way that felt fragile.
This one feels…inevitable.
Her hand tightens slightly against my chest, and I feel the shift immediately, the quiet deepening of something neither of us is pretending not to want anymore.
I tilt my head instinctively, my other hand coming up along her jaw, thumb brushing lightly along her cheek before settling there.
She exhales softly against my mouth, and the sound hits somewhere low and dangerous.
I pull her closer without fully realizing I’m doing it, just enough to feel the warmth of her through the thin fabric between us.
It would be very easy to lose control of this moment. Very easy to forget every promise I’ve made. Very easy to justify it.
She tilts her face upward, trusting, open, and I realize in this moment that she is choosing this—choosing me—despite everything she’s been through. Despite everything that makes this complicated.
I deepen the kiss without thinking, slow but certain. I know pulling away is going to be harder than it should be. Harder than I want it to be.
I feel the small shift of her stepping closer, closing the last inch of space between us.
I turn us so her lower back is pressed against the kitchen island.
I force myself to slow down. Force myself to remember that wanting something doesn’t mean taking it.
Doesn’t mean rushing when it deserves more care than that.
My forehead rests briefly against hers, grounding myself in the quiet closeness of the moment. Her eyes stay closed for a second longer. When they open, they’re softer. Warmer. Trusting in a way that feels like responsibility.
I brush a kiss against her cheek, letting it linger there just a moment.
“Goodnight, Ivy,” I say quietly.
Her lips part slightly, like she might say something else. Instead she just nods faintly. “Goodnight, Dalton.”
It takes more effort than I want to admit to let my hands fall away from her. More effort still to take the step back that puts space between us again. Because now that I know she wants this too, restraint feels less like discipline and more like torture.
I drag a hand back through my hair as I turn toward the hallway, forcing myself not to look back at her.
I need a cold shower. The longest one of my life.
Because if I stay in that kitchen another thirty seconds, I’m not entirely convinced I’d have remembered why I ever agreed to keep my distance in the first place.
And the thing is, I’m not sure I want to.