Page 88 of At First Flight
“You’re beautiful.”
She rolls her eyes, but her smile is soft.
We don’t kiss again. Not yet. We just stand there, pressed close, her cheek against my collarbone, my hands steady at her back. The ocean breathes around us. And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m rushing toward something or trying to escape it.
I’m just… here. With her. And that’s everything.
The silence in the car isn’t awkward. It’s heavy. Buzzing. Thick with everything we didn’t say back in that theater.
Her hand brushes mine on the center console and I swear it scorches. She doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t speak either. Just leans her head back against the seat, her eyes trained out the window like the quiet night might somehow offer her answers neither of us are brave enough to ask yet.
But I see the way her knees shift toward me. The way she bites her bottom lip when I glance over. And God help me; I’m hanging on by a thread.
I grip the wheel tighter.
“You okay?” I ask, my voice a little hoarse.
She turns, eyes shining in the soft glow from the dash lights. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”
“About?”
She hesitates. “How different tonight felt. Good different.”
My chest tightens. “Yeah. It did.”
The road narrows as we pull into the neighborhood, the tires crunching softly on gravel. Lila tucks her hair behind her ear, and my gaze drops to the curve of her neck, her collarbone. I wonder what she’d do if I leaned in right now and kissed her there—slow and soft and reverent. If she’d melt into me like she did earlier. If she’d whisper my name like a plea.
Or a promise.
When I park in the driveway, neither of us moves. We just sit, suspended at this moment like we’re both afraid to break it.
“I should probably…” she starts but doesn’t finish.
I reach across and gently run the backs of my fingers down her arm. “You don’t have to.”
She turns to me slowly. “Dean.”
I lift her hand, press a kiss to her knuckles. “I know. I’m not asking for anything. I just don’t want this night to end.”
A pause. Then, softly, “Me either.”
I open her door and help her out, our fingers lacing together like we’ve done this a hundred times. Like our hands were made to find one another in the dark.
Inside, the house is quiet. Still. The kind of still that makes everything louder—our footsteps, our breaths, the thunder of my pulse in my ears.
I lead her into the kitchen, flick on a soft light. She leans back against the counter, her eyes never leaving mine. I take a step closer. Then another.
The tension, the restraint—it snaps.
She’s in my arms before I can talk myself out of it. Her hands in my hair. My mouth claiming hers like I’ve been starved for weeks. Because I have. For her. For this. For the way she sighs into me like I’m the only air she’s ever needed.
She tastes like dessert and hope. Like everything I’ve been craving since she stepped into my life. My hands find her hips, pulling her flush against me, and I swear I feel her breath catch when our bodies align. Her fingers slip into my hair, tugging just enough to make me groan.
“Dean,” she whispers, voice shaky. “We should… I mean…”
“I know.” My lips brush her jaw, her neck, the delicate shell of her ear. “We don’t have to do anything. Not unless you want to.”
She pulls back enough to meet my gaze, cheeks flushed, chest heaving. “That’s the problem. I want to.”
