37. Lachlan #2
A small sound escapes her, almost too soft to hear. But I hear it, feel it in the subtle shift of the air between us. "Thank you," she whispers, and the gratitude in her voice makes my very bones ache. "For trusting me with this."
I don't respond with words. Just stand beside her, close enough to touch but not crowding—respecting her space. Never crowding, never pushing.
We stand here for a long time, watching the waves crash against the rocks far below, listening to the wind rustling through the grass, the distant cry of seabirds. Just being. Just existing in this moment together.
Then she shifts closer, her shoulder brushing mine, a deliberate movement.
I go still, every nerve ending suddenly hyperaware, not pulling away, not moving toward her.
Just letting her decide, letting her set the pace.
She leans, just slightly, into me. And I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
"This is nice," she says softly, her voice barely audible over the ocean sounds.
"Yeah," I murmur, my own voice rough. "It is." We stay like this until the sun starts its descent toward the horizon, until the sky begins its transformation into something breathtaking, golds and pinks and oranges bleeding into one another.
The sky deepens gradually, the amber and gold fading into purples and deep blues as evening settles in around us. The stars begin to emerge, pinpricks of light against the darkening canvas. "Hungry?" I ask reluctantly, breaking the comfortable silence.
She nods, turning to look at me. "Starving, actually."
I smile, genuinely pleased. "Good. I came prepared." I packed food earlier—nothing fancy, nothing pretentious. Sandwiches, fresh fruit, chips, and something sweet that Finn insisted I bring, claiming Omegas always appreciate dessert. I've been around Finn long enough to know that this was a fact.
We sit on the thick blanket I spread out on the grass, eating, talking, laughing. The conversation flows easily, naturally, like we've been doing this for years instead of weeks.
She tells me about work: the customer who ordered six lattes at once and then couldn't carry them all, Maria teaching her how to make increasingly complex latte art, the regular who always tips exactly seventeen percent—no more, no less.
And I listen. Not because I have to, not because it's expected, but because I want to.
Because everything about her matters. Every story, every expression, every gesture.
At some point, she shifts closer again, her knee brushing mine, her hand resting on the blanket near my thigh.
Not touching, but close. Close enough that I catch the scent of her—sea salt and wildflowers, something uniquely hers that settles into my chest like it belongs there.
I don't move. Don't push. Just wait, patient, letting her navigate this at her own speed.
The setting sun catches the cream of her sweater, and for a moment, it seems to glow from within, the fabric luminous against the darkening sky. She's beautiful like this—caught between day and night, between hesitation and certainty.
Then she does it.
She reaches over, slowly, carefully, deliberately, taking my hand in hers.
Everything in me goes very still. The world narrows to just this—the warmth of her palm against mine, the gentle press of her fingers as they lace through my own.
I can hear the breeze ruffling through her hair, soft and whispering.
Her breathing, steady and calm beside me.
The small shift of her hand on the blanket, deliberate, choosing.
The distant crash of waves against the shore below us, a rhythm that matches the sudden certainty in my chest.
I turn my hand over, lacing our fingers together, delighting in the way they fit, how her palm presses against mine.
Her hand is small in mine, delicate but not fragile.
Warm. Perfect. Everything. She doesn't pull away.
Doesn't tense or second-guess. Just holds on, her thumb absently stroking the back of my hand.
"Is this okay?" she asks quietly, vulnerability flickering across her features.
"Yeah," I say, my voice coming out rougher than intended, emotion making it thick. "It's more than okay. This is...everything."
She smiles—that beautiful, genuine smile that transforms her entire face—and leans her head against my shoulder, fitting herself against my side like she was made to be there.
I could stay here forever.
We sit together, hand in hand, until the stars start twinkling on, one by one, in the darkening sky above us. Until the air turns cool with the evening breeze coming off the ocean. Until she shivers slightly despite being tucked against me.
"Cold?" I ask, already knowing her answer.
"A little," she admits.
I shift carefully, mindful of not moving too quickly or presuming too much, wrapping my arm around her shoulders. She doesn't hesitate, doesn't stiffen. Just tucks herself more fully against my side, her arm sliding around my waist, like she belongs here. Because she does. She absolutely does.
"We should probably head back," I say when the stars are bright enough to make out their constellations, the words physically painful to speak. "It's getting late." Even though I don't want to. Even though I'd give anything to freeze this moment, to stay suspended in this perfect evening forever.
She nods but doesn't move right away, seeming as reluctant as I feel.
"Lachlan?"
"Yeah?"
She tilts her head up, looking at me with those expressive eyes. Really looking, seeing past whatever walls I usually keep up.
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For this. For bringing me here. For...everything. For being patient. For not pushing. For seeing me."
I brush a strand of hair away from her face with my free hand, slowly, carefully, letting my fingers linger against her cheek. "You don't have to thank me. Not for any of that."
"I want to." Her gaze drops to my mouth, just for a second, but long enough that I notice. Everything in me goes completely still, my entire world narrowing to this moment, this possibility.
I lean down slowly, giving her every opportunity to pull back, to change her mind, to say no.
She doesn't.
Instead, she rises up slightly, meeting me halfway with a courage that makes my heart stumble. And when our lips finally touch, it's soft, careful, tentative, and absolutely perfect.
Everything else disappears. The ocean, the stars, the cooling evening air—all of it fades into nothing. There's only her, only this. The kiss isn’t rushed, not desperate or demanding. Just right. Just exactly what it needs to be.
She sighs against my mouth, a soft sound that nearly undoes me completely, and I pull her closer, one hand sliding into her hair, the other at the small of her back. Not demanding, just holding. Just cherishing this moment, this woman, this gift I never expected to receive.
When we finally pull back, both needing air, she's breathless, eyes wide and dazed, cheeks beautifully flushed. "Wow," she whispers, the single word heavy with wonder.
I smile, my heart doing something stupid and arrhythmic in my chest. "Yeah."
She laughs softly, the sound lighter than air, and I press my forehead against hers, closing my eyes, just breathing her in. Just for a moment. Just long enough to memorize this feeling. "We should go," I murmur, though every fiber of my being protests the idea.
"Yeah," she agrees, but her voice lacks conviction.
Neither of us moves for several long moments.
Eventually, Kaia shivers beside me, despite the sweater and blanket.
I glance toward the darkening horizon, then remember she has to be at the café before sunrise.
The thought is unwelcome, but practical.
We can’t stay here all night. We pack up the remains of our meal, fold up the blanket, and walk back to the car, her fingers still laced in mine.
The drive back is quiet but not uncomfortable. Not awkward or tense. Just peaceful, comfortable silence. She leans her head against the window, eyes half-closed, a small, contented smile playing at her lips. I can't stop glancing at her, drinking in the sight of her so relaxed and happy.
When we pull up to the house, she doesn't get out right away. Just sits for a moment, looking at me with an expression I can't quite read but that makes my chest feel too tight.
"I had a really good time," she says softly, sincerely.
"Me too. Better than good, actually."
She hesitates, a moment of internal debate playing across her features, then leans over the center console and presses a soft, sweet kiss to my cheek, her lips warm against my skin.
Once we get inside the house, which is thankfully quiet—the others must be out or deliberately making themselves scarce—we walk upstairs together, footsteps muffled by the hallway carpet.
"Goodnight, Lachlan," she says when we reach her door, her hand resting on the handle.
"Goodnight, Kaia." I stand there like an idiot, watching her disappear inside her room, somehow final. A strange heaviness washes over me, my mind racing with everything that happened, everything that changed tonight.
Because tonight changed everything. Shifted something fundamental. She chose me. Not because she had to. Not because anyone pushed or manipulated or forced. Because she wanted to. Because she felt it too, whatever this thing is between us.
And this, right here, is everything.
I go to my room and shower, letting the hot water pelt against my shoulders, trying to process the evening.
Beneath the steady rush, I close my eyes and let myself feel it, really feel it without trying to analyze or control it.
The certainty. The rightness. The absolute, bone-deep knowledge that she's mine.
Not in a possessive, controlling way, but in the way that matters.
In the way that says she's my person, my match, my future. Our future.