Chapter 19 #2
“You… really didn’t have to do this,” I say softly. “The dinner thing. You could have just… not.”
He leans in slightly, calm, steady, and smirks. “I wanted to. And you?”
I freeze, my fork halfway to my mouth. “Me? Uh… yeah. I mean—yes. I wanted… I mean… never mind.”
He laughs softly, low and warm, and it makes my stomach flip. “Never mind, huh?”
I nod, heart hammering. “Never mind.”
The sun dips lower over the lake. The light catches in his eyes, warm and steady, and I realize that somehow, between the chaos of the kitchen and the awkward confessions about tattoos and judgment, this… this moment feels like the first time I’ve ever truly wanted to stay still.
We both fall into a quiet that doesn’t feel like silence at all. It’s full—warm—pulling at something in my chest I don’t have a name for.
Ethan stands and collects our plates, and I move to help, because it seems like the polite adult thing to do. Except the moment I stand, my foot catches on the leg of the chair, and I stumble forward.
He catches me by the arm—gentle but firm enough to steady my entire existence.
“You okay?” he asks, voice doing that low thing that goes straight to my spine.
“Yeah,” I breathe. “Totally. Gravity and I just… negotiate differently.”
His mouth curves. “I’ve noticed.”
I swat his shoulder lightly, but he doesn’t move. Instead, his hand lingers on my arm—longer than necessary. His thumb grazes the inside of my elbow in a slow, absent-minded arc.
It feels like being touched for the first time.
I swallow and step back a bit too quickly, heat prickling my cheeks. “I, uh… I’ll bring the wine in before I break anything else.”
“You won’t break anything,” he says.
“Ethan.” I look at him. “I literally melted a spatula today.”
He laughs—really laughs—and my stomach flips like it’s doing its own stunt routine.
We clean up together, moving almost carefully around each other, as if every near touch were a decision. When he brushes past me to set down the plates, his shoulder grazes mine. I shiver. I know I do, because he notices—his eyes flick down, then up, curious.
And suddenly… everything slows.
The lake whispers behind us, the last bit of sunset smudging gold across the patio. He’s close. Way too close. My heartbeat is basically auditioning for a drum solo.
“Lucky?” he says, quietly.
“Hm?” I try for casual. It comes out breathless.
“You don’t have to pretend with me, you know.”
My chest tightens. “Pretend what?”
“That you’ve got it all handled.” His eyes search mine. “You don’t need to put on the show here.”
My throat works around a knot I didn’t expect. “I’m… not used to people seeing the mess.”
“I don’t mind the mess.”
He says it so simply. No hesitation. No judgment.
Like it’s a fact.
And something inside me goes dangerously soft.
I turn away before I crumble right there on the patio. “You say that now,” I murmur, “but you didn’t see the kitchen.”
He smirks. “I saw enough.”
I grab the wine bottle and pour us each another glass, except mine overflows a bit because my hand is shaking. “Oops.”
He steps in behind me, taking the bottle gently from my fingers. His chest brushes my back—light, warm, steadying. “Let me.”
It’s nothing, and it’s everything.
He pours, slow and precise, and hands my glass back. Our fingers graze. His linger.
We sit down again, but this time we’re much closer. Not touching—but one inch away from it. Close enough that every movement matters.
The lake goes quiet. Or maybe I just stop hearing it.
I look at him. He looks at me.
And for one long, suspended moment, we don’t move. We don’t breathe. We just… exist in a space that feels like the cliff-edge of a kiss.
He’s the one who finally looks away—barely. Just enough to steady himself.
“Dinner was good,” he says softly.
“You made the dinner,” I remind him, smiling.
“You invited me,” he says.
My heart drops-kicks my ribcage.
“Well,” I whisper, “I’m glad I did.”
His eyes lift to mine again—slow, deliberate.
“So am I.”
The air snaps—charged, sweet, unbearable.
I swirl the wine in my glass, pretending to admire the lake, but my brain is still replaying last night’s kisses like someone hit repeat and walked away.
The thought slips in.
Then out.
Then back in louder.
Just ask him.
I take a sip for courage. It doesn’t help.
So I say it anyway.
“So…” I start lightly, too lightly, like I’m talking about the weather. “When are you planning to kiss me again?”
Ethan goes completely still.
His hand freezes around his glass, jaw tightening just slightly — that little tic he gets when something hits deeper than he wants it to.
“Because,” I continue, pretending like this is no big deal at all, “I kinda liked your lips on mine. They were… You know. Nice.”
His eyes lift to mine, slow and sharp, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m joking or if his heart is about to detonate.
Without a word, he reaches forward, plucks the wine glass from my hand, and sets it beside his on the table.
Then he takes my hand.
My breath stumbles.
He stands, bringing me with him, and my pulse rockets as his thumb brushes over my knuckles—soft, steady, completely disarming.
“You don’t make this easy,” he says quietly, eyes flicking between mine.
“You want me to stop making it easy?” I tease, lifting a brow. “Because I can absolutely make things complicated if you—”
He snorts—an actual, flustered, can’t-hide-it snort.
It’s glorious.
Before I can revel in it, his hand comes up—warm, calloused fingers cupping my jaw with surprising gentleness. The other settles at my waist, grounding me.
“Lucky,” he murmurs, and the way he says my name steals the air from my lungs.
Then he kisses me.
Not like last night.
This time it’s slow. Intentional.
A deliberate slide of his mouth over mine that makes my vision flash white around the edges.
Heat curls low in my stomach and spreads like wildfire.
His arm tightens around my waist as my knees buckle—because of course they do—and he catches me without breaking the kiss, holding me firmly against him.
I melt.
Actually melt.
His lips move with a kind of careful hunger, like he’s been holding himself back for too damn long, and now he’s choosing—choosing—to let go.
One hand in my hair.
One arm around my body.
His breath mixing with mine.
His heartbeat pressed against my chest.
My hands fist in his shirt, clinging, pulling him closer because I suddenly need him like oxygen.
When he finally pulls away, just barely, his forehead rests against mine as we both try to breathe like normal humans.
He exhales softly, voice rough when he speaks.
“That,” he says, “is when I’m planning to kiss you again.”
I don’t think my knees will ever forgive him.
His lips leave mine slowly, like he’s reluctant to let go, and it does something to me—pulls every nerve in my body tight and bright and hungry.
We’re both breathing hard.
The night air feels warmer than it should.
His hand is still at my waist, firm, steadying me, like he knows my legs aren’t fully operational right now. His other hand slides down from my jaw to the side of my neck, thumb resting just under my ear.
I swear my pulse jumps against his fingertip.
“Ethan…” My voice is a whisper. A warning. A plea. I don’t even know.
He looks at me like I’ve undone every line of discipline he’s spent years stitching into himself.
"Tell me to stop," he says quietly.
I don’t.
I can’t.
So he moves closer.
My back hits the edge of the patio table, and his body presses into mine—solid, warm, careful but not as careful as before. Something in him has slipped, like a restraint unhooking.
His forehead brushes my temple as he breathes me in. The simple touch sends heat rolling through me.
“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” he murmurs.
“I’m not… looking.” I try. “I’m just… existing.”
His low chuckle vibrates against my chest.
His thumb sweeps over my lower lip, slow enough to unspool every coherent thought I might’ve had left.
My hand finds his shirt, fisting the fabric. I pull him closer without meaning to, but he comes willingly, his mouth grazing the corner of mine—soft, deliberate, devastating.
The patio lights glow warm around us, throwing gold along his jaw. The lake is dark and quiet, a soft hush against the shore.
“Lucky,” he breathes. My name sounds different now—heated, reverent, dangerous.
His hand slips to my hip, fingers curving into the fabric of my vest, pulling me flush against him. My breath catches.
Everything inside me feels like it’s leaning toward him—gravity choosing him over air.
We kiss again—slow at first, then deeper, hungrier, like neither of us is pretending not to want this anymore.
I taste wine and warmth and Ethan, and it’s addictive in a way that terrifies me.
His hands slide around my waist, lifting me onto the table with effortless strength. The movement knocks a soft gasp out of me, and I feel his breath hitch against my cheek like the sound undid something in him.
My legs wrap around him instinctively.
His hands skim down my thighs.
His mouth moves to my neck.
The world tilts.
“Tell me if this is too fast,” he murmurs against my skin.
“It’s not fast,” I whisper. “It’s… finally.”
He stills for half a second, like those words hit center mass.
Then his mouth finds mine again—slow, deep, consuming—and the heat between us spikes in a way that feels inevitable.
The night folds around us; the lake glimmers in the corner of my vision; his body presses into mine with intent that neither of us is pretending to ignore.
Ethan's fingers hook under the hem of my vest, tugging it upward with a deliberate slowness that makes my skin prickle.
I lift my arms without thinking, letting him peel the thin fabric over my head, exposing the lacy black bra hugging my breasts.
The cool night air kisses my bare shoulders, but his gaze burns hotter, raking over me like he's memorizing every curve.