Chapter 17 #3
She leans in the slightest bit—enough to make my pulse spike, enough that I know this isn’t in my head.
I give her one more second to pull back as I put my mug down next to hers.
She doesn’t.
So I close the distance.
It’s soft at first—careful, like we’re both afraid a sudden move might snap whatever fragile thing is forming between us.
But then she presses closer, fingers curling into the front of my shirt, and the kiss deepens all at once.
God.
I’m done for.
Her mouth is warm and eager, tasting faintly of the tea she just made.
She makes a quiet noise against my lips—surprised, wanting—and every part of me goes sharp and alive.
I slide a hand to her jaw, and she leans into it like she’s been waiting for someone to touch her gently.
She kisses me back with this raw, honest hunger that drives the breath from my lungs.
I pull her in without thinking, the world narrowing to heat and breath and the tiny gasps she makes when my thumb brushes her cheek.
When we finally break away, we stay close—foreheads touching, breaths tangled, hearts hammering.
She laughs softly, the sound a little breathless.“Well. That… happened.”
“I’ll say,” I murmur, and my voice is embarrassingly low.
She looks up at me with bright eyes and flushed cheeks, all softness and fire wrapped together, and it hits me like a bloody truck:
I’m falling for her. Hard.
“Ethan,” she whispers, like she’s testing my name in this new context. “I… really liked that.”
My chest tightens in a way I haven’t felt in years.
“I really liked that too.”
There’s no fear in her expression.
No pulling away.
Just warmth. Curiosity. A quiet, blooming want she’s not bothering to hide.
And when she leans into me again—just enough to rest against my shoulder—I let out a slow, steady breath and wrap my arm around her.
Natural.
Easy.
Right.
No flinching.
No break in the moment.
Just two people wanting each other without overthinking the consequences.
I lean back to look at her, and I can’t help myself. I lean in and take her lips once more. This time, I take more from her, dragging my tongue across her lips, and she meets me with the tip of hers.
She tastes like chamomile and rain.
She makes a small, broken sound as her fingers curl into my shirt.
I don’t know who moves first, but we’re closer in an instant—her thigh brushing mine, her chest pressed lightly to me, the kiss deepening like a wave pulling us both under.
And God.
I’m gone.
Completely, helplessly gone.
When we finally break apart, she keeps her forehead against mine, breath uneven, lips still trembling.
I’m not any steadier.
“Bloody hell,” I whisper.
She lets out a tiny laugh—shaky, disbelieving.
“Yeah,” she murmurs. “That about sums it up.”
Lucky pulls back only enough to see my face, eyes still half-lidded, cheeks flushed. She looks stunned and alive at the same time — like she’s trying to memorize what just happened while pretending she isn’t.
I clear my throat, which does absolutely nothing to steady me.
“Tea,” I manage. “Before we do something irresponsible.”
She arches a brow. “Define irresponsible.”
“Anything that feels exactly like that kiss,” I say, because honesty seems unavoidable at this point.
Her lips curve, slow and wicked and beautiful. “Then I should probably get the kettle.”
“Probably,” I echo — though my voice comes out lower than intended.
She slips past me toward the kitchen, and even that tiny bit of distance annoys me more than it should. I follow, because leaving the patio now feels… wrong.
Lucky moves toward the small coat rack by the door, shrugging out the leather jacket with a fluid, almost practiced motion. She swaps it quickly for a chunky, oversized cardigan, the kind that swallows her shoulders and arms in soft fabric.
I catch the movement just enough to notice—her left arm has a full sleeve of intricate ink, curling around her forearm, dark and alive against her pale skin.
A few delicate designs peek from under the fabric of her right sleeve as well.
She adjusts the cardigan, completely concealing the tattoos before I can study them properly.
I can’t help it. My brain ticks over: why hide them? A fleeting thought, curiosity, and concern mix together. But she doesn’t offer an explanation, and I don’t press. It’s hers to share when she wants to, not mine to pry.
She moves to the kitchen, tucking her hair behind one ear, still radiating that casual confidence that’s somehow impossible to ignore.
I lean against the doorway, sipping the remainder of my tea, and the image of her in that oversized cardigan—tattoos hidden, warmth in every line—stays with me far longer than it should.
She moves around her kitchen with a kind of quiet, absent grace — like her body remembers how even when she doesn’t. She reaches for new mugs, then glances over her shoulder at me.
“You’re staring.”
“I’m breathing,” I reply.
“That doesn’t answer the accusation.”
“It’s not an accusation,” I shoot back. “Just an observation on your part.”
She snorts under her breath, turning away so I won’t see the smile she’s trying not to show — and failing.
The kettle clicks on, humming faintly. The world outside still smells like summer and ozone. Somehow, the whole house feels warmer than it did ten minutes ago.
She places a mug in front of me. “Chamomile good?”
“You know it is,” I say, deadpan. “You kissed me. You’ve clearly learned my preferences.”
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t be smug.”
“I’m not. I’m charmingly factual.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is now.”
Her laugh — soft, real, unguarded — hits me harder than the kiss did.
We take our mugs back out to the patio. Everything is quiet, crickets humming in the wet grass, the lake shifting in the distance like a sheet of black glass. We sit on the step, shoulders brushing, pretending it’s casual.
It’s not.
She tucks her legs up beside her, warming her hands on the mug. “So,” she says lightly, “should we acknowledge the… thing that happened?”
“We just did,” I say. “With tea. Very British.”
She nudges me with her knee. “Seriously.”
I hesitate, then: “It wasn’t a mistake.”
Her breath catches, just barely. “No,” she says softly. “It wasn’t.”
“And it’s… been a long time since anything wasn’t.”
She turns her head toward me, eyes warm in the shadows. There’s no pity in her stare — which is good, because I’d walk straight into the bloody lake before accepting pity.
Just curiosity. Understanding. And something that feels worryingly like hope.
“It’s strange,” she murmurs. “You’re so guarded. So… locked up.”
I huff a humorless laugh. “You don’t say.”
“But with me?” She tilts her head. “Tonight felt like you let me see something real.”
I swallow hard. “Don’t get used to it.”
She smiles into her tea. “You’ll crack again. I can be very annoying.”
“That’s the problem.”
She bumps my shoulder with hers again — a small gesture, but it knocks something loose in me.
We drink in silence for a few minutes. Comfortable. Close. The kind of closeness I’ve avoided for years because it always led somewhere I wasn’t ready to go.
Now… I’m not sure what I am.
Finally, she sets her mug down beside her and looks at me again, all earnestness and quiet bravery.
“Ethan?”
“Mm?”
She lifts a hand and brushes a thumb lightly along my jaw — barely a touch, but enough to start my pulse up again.
“Can we… do that again sometime?”
I catch her hand gently, keep it there. “You have no idea,” I murmur. “How badly I want to.”
Her breath stutters. “Good.”
We sit like that, knees touching, hands entangled, the night wrapping around us like a secret.
And for the first time in years — maybe since before Mara, maybe since before the army, perhaps ever — something inside me feels unbearably, terrifyingly right.