10. Josiah #4
Her eyebrows rose. “Is this about to be one of your sexy science lessons?”
I laughed lowly. “Sexy?”
“You heard me.”
“Yes, ma’am, I did.”
Her smile touched her eyes for the first time since I’d walked in.
I took that as mercy.
“Bad wiring and grief can both function for a while. Everything looks fine until something starts flickering.” I held her gaze. “I’m not scared of what flickers in you.”
She whispered, “That’s not fair.”
I frowned slightly. “What?”
“You can’t say stuff like that and expect me to keep standing here like I’m fine.”
I breathed out a laugh, but my chest was too full for it to carry much sound. “I don’t expect you to be fine.”
“No?”
“No. I expect you to be honest.”
She stared at me, then nodded. “I’m scared.”
“I know.”
“I like you.”
“I know that too.”
Her mouth opened, and a laugh slipped out through tears. “You know everything, huh?”
“No, ma’am. Just paying attention.”
Her eyes narrowed a little, but her smile stayed. “You’re too smooth.”
“I’m not smooth. I’m certain.”
That sobered her.
I let the words stand.
“I’m certain about my interest. I’m certain about my intentions.
I’m certain I took this to God before I stepped toward you, and I’m certain I’ll keep checking myself if you let me stay in this.
What I don’t know is timing. I don’t know how long Kayden needs.
I don’t know how many times your guilt is going to flare up and make you second-guess yourself.
I don’t know how many doors grief still has keys to in your house.
But I’m not asking for everything today. ”
Her voice trembled. “What are you asking for?”
I looked at her lips before bringing my eyes back to hers. I was still a man, and God was still working on me.
“Permission to keep showing up.”
She looked at my mouth then.
Not by accident.
My pulse moved hard once, then steadied.
“Celeste.”
“Yes?”
“I want to kiss you.”
Her fingers curled against the counter.
The sentence entered the room and changed it.
Nothing loud happened. No thunder. No dramatic shift.
Just the two of us standing under warm salon lights with the open wall behind me, the front door locked, the world on the other side of the glass, and God somewhere in the middle, reminding me that desire was only safe when it knew how to kneel.
“But I need your yes,” I said.
Her eyes lifted to mine.
For a second, I saw every war in her. Wife and widow. Mother and woman. Memory and hunger. Fear and faith. She wasn’t rushing herself past any of it. She stood there and let all of it pass through her face, honest enough to make my throat tighten.
Then she nodded.
I didn’t move.
Her lips parted. “Yes.”
That was what I needed.
Not the nod.
The word.
I stepped into her space slowly and lifted my hand, giving her time to change her mind even after she had granted permission.
She didn’t. When my palm touched her cheek, her eyes closed before my fingers fully settled there.
Her skin was warm. Her breath shook against my wrist. I brushed my thumb near her cheekbone, careful of the tear track there, and leaned down until my forehead almost touched hers.
“Still yes?” I asked.
Her eyes opened, and the look she gave me nearly took me out.
“Still yes.”
I kissed her like I had taken her name to God before touching her.
Because I had.
I kept it gentle at first, not because I lacked want, but because want without care was just hunger in good clothes.
Her lips were warm and softer than my good sense was prepared for.
The first touch was a question. The second was an answer.
She inhaled, a small, broken sound that moved through me like current finding copper, and her hand came to my forearm, fingers closing around me as though she needed proof I was real and restraint at the same time.
I held her face and let the kiss deepen by degrees, slow enough for trust to stay in the room.
Her body leaned toward mine, not falling, not rushing, just answering.
I felt the moment she stopped holding her breath.
Felt her shoulders ease. Felt her fingers loosen, then tighten again when I pulled back just enough to breathe.
Her eyes opened slowly. The salon lights caught the tears still gathered there, but something in her expression had changed.
I rested my forehead against hers, my hand still at her cheek.
“You okay?” I asked.
She nodded, but I waited.
“I’m okay,” she whispered.
“You sure?”
“No.”
The honesty made my chest ache.
Then she laughed softly, and I smiled against the space between us.
“That’s fair.”
She looked up at me, hand still on my arm. “I don’t want to mess this up.”
“You won’t mess it up by being honest.”
“I might be scared again tomorrow.”
“Then we’ll talk tomorrow.”
“I might cry.”
“I’ve seen tears before.”
“I might mention Jamal.”
“I expect you to.”
That got her.
Her eyes filled again, but this time, the tears didn’t look as heavy. They looked like rain after heat, something needed, something releasing.