Ivy
Hampton, Virginia
“Dalton.” His name leaves my mouth before I can overthink it. Before I can decide whether chasing after him down the hallway is a terrible idea. Before I can remind myself that this is already complicated enough.
He stops.
Slowly turns.
And the way he looks at me—calm, steady, entirely too aware—makes my pulse stutter hard enough that I almost lose my nerve right then.
Almost.
“You can’t…” I exhale, immediately frustrated with myself for not planning what I was going to say. “You can’t kiss me like that and just say goodnight and walk away.”
His shoulder rests casually against the wall, arms crossing loosely over his chest like he has all the time in the world. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
“Oh?” he says quietly.
The corner of his mouth lifts slightly.
“Yes, oh,” I insist, even though my voice comes out higher and breathier than I intended.
His gaze flickers briefly to my mouth. It’s subtle. But I catch it. And my stomach flips again.
“What would you like me to do instead?” he asks.
The question lands low in my chest, sending heat up my neck almost instantly.
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out. Because the answer is sitting right there—obvious, overwhelming, and impossible to ignore— and saying it out loud feels terrifying in a way I don’t quite know how to explain.
I know what I want. That’s the problem. I want him closer.
I want his hands on me again. I want the warmth and steadiness of the way he kisses me like he isn’t in a rush but also like he absolutely means it.
And wanting something this much feels dangerously unfamiliar.
Feels like stepping into a version of myself I haven’t been in a very long time.
Before everything changed. Before I learned how quickly things can be taken away.
“What do you want, Ivy?” he asks quietly.
My name in his voice makes it worse. My heart is beating so loudly I’m almost sure he can hear it. I hesitate just long enough to feel ridiculous. Then I force the words past the nerves twisting inside me. “I want you to kiss me again.”
For half a second, neither of us moves.
Then he closes the distance.
His hand settles at my waist with a confidence that sends a nervous, excited shiver down my spine, and suddenly the air between us feels thinner, warmer, charged with something we are both very clearly aware of now.
The kiss is immediate. Not uncertain like the first one. Not careful like the second.
This one feels like we’ve both already admitted something we can’t take back.
My hands find his shoulders instinctively, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as he guides me backward until the wall presses lightly against my back.
The contact makes it harder to think about anything except the way his mouth moves against mine, slow at first, then deeper when I lean into him.
He feels solid. Steady. Safe.
His hand slides slightly at my waist giving me time to stop this if I want to.
I don’t. Instead, I move closer. Closer until there isn’t space left between us.
A soft sound escapes me before I can stop it when he lifts me easily, my hands tightening at his shoulders as my legs instinctively warp around his waist.
The shift pulls me higher, closer, the angle deepening the kiss in a way that sends heat spiraling through me faster than I’m prepared for.
One of his hands steadies at my waist while the other braces lightly beside my head against the wall, not trapping me, just holding me there like he’s making sure I know I’m supported. My fingers slide slightly into his hair before I realize what I’m doing. He exhales softly against my mouth.
Everything feels heightened. My awareness of him. Of myself. Of how long it’s been since I’ve allowed anything to feel this simple. This wanted.
We slow eventually, not because I want to but because breathing becomes necessary.
My forehead rests lightly against his as we both catch our breath.
His thumb brushes once along my jaw, a small, absent motion that somehow feels more intimate than anything else.
I almost say something. Almost ask him not to stop this time.
But the words stay lodged somewhere behind my ribs, tangled up in nerves and caution and the unfamiliar vulnerability of wanting something this much again.
He presses one last slower kiss to my mouth before carefully lowering me back to the floor.
My hands linger at his shoulders before I let go.
“Goodnight, Ivy,” he says quietly.
This time, he’s definitely smiling.
I stare at him, still slightly breathless, trying very hard not to look as affected as I feel.
“That’s really your move now?” I manage.
His light brown eyes sparkle as his smirk deepens just slightly. “For tonight,” he says.
And then he turns, disappearing into his room before I can decide whether to protest again.
The soft click of his door closing echoes down the hallway.
I stand there for a second longer than I should, heart still racing, lips still warm, trying to process how something as simple as a kiss can feel this overwhelming. And how, despite everything, I already know I want another one.