His stillness changed.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because wanting to and having the right to are different things.”
My heart began to pound.
“And if I gave you the right?”
His breath caught.
It was small. Almost invisible.
But I saw it.
“Jessica.”
“I’m not asking for marriage. I’m not asking for forever. I’m asking whether you’re standing at a distance because you don’t want me, or because you’re afraid wanting me makes you like him.”
Something flickered across his face.
Pain. Recognition.
Then he crossed the room slowly, giving me every chance to stop him.
I didn’t.
He knelt in front of my chair so I would not have to tilt my healing body upward. His hand rose, paused near my cheek, and waited.
I leaned into it.
His palm was warm.
When he kissed me, it was gentle.
Not cautious in a cold way. Cautious like reverence. Like he knew exactly how much damage careless hands could do.
I had expected fireworks, maybe. Something dramatic enough to match the madness that had brought us here.
Instead, I felt peace.
A quiet, astonishing peace.
As if some locked room inside me had opened and fresh air had entered.
When he pulled back, his eyes searched mine.
I smiled.
“That was very decent of you, Mark Grant.”
His laugh was low and surprised.
“I aim to be consistent.”
Spring came slowly.
