Page 24 of Love, Take Two

When he says that, something inside me carefully controlled since college completely breaks open. Because I've missed this too. I've missed the way he makes me feel like the most interesting person in any room, the way our bodies fit togetherlike puzzle pieces, the way he looks at me like I'm magic he's still figuring out how to believe in.

"Emory," I say, and this time his name comes out like a prayer or a confession.

"Yeah?" he asks, and his voice is rough with the same longing I can feel building in my chest.

"I think—"

Before I can finish that sentence, the music stops and the band announces they're taking a short break. Reality crashes back as other couples begin leaving the dance floor, and we're suddenly aware that we've been creating an incredibly intimate moment in front of dozens of wedding guests.

"We should—" I start, though I have no idea what we should do.

"Take a break too," Emory finishes, understanding immediately that we need privacy to process whatever just happened between us.

He takes my hand and leads me away from the dance floor, past groups of chatting guests, toward a section of the beach where private cabanas have been set up for resort guests. The cabana furthest from the party is empty and draped in flowing white curtains that create perfect privacy from the reception.

"Better?" he asks once we're inside the intimate space, though his hand is still holding mine and we're still standing close enough that I can feel his body heat.

"Better," I agree, though being alone with him feels both safer and infinitely more dangerous.

The cabana is elegant and romantic—comfortable seating, soft lighting from solar lanterns, sheer curtains that provide privacy while still allowing ocean breezes. It's the kind of setting designed for intimate conversations or romantic encounters, and we're very much alone.

"So," he says, settling beside me on the plush seating, “something happened."

"Something definitely happened," I agree, hyper aware of how close we're sitting and the way our hands are still connected.

"I meant what I said," Emory continues, turning to face me fully. "About not getting over you. About missing this."

My heart is racing so fast I'm surprised he can't hear it over the sound of waves and distant party music. Because I want to tell him that I feel the same way, that seeing him again has made me realize how much I've been missing, that dancing with him tonight felt like coming home to something I didn't realize I'd lost.

"I missed it too," I admit, the words coming out in a rush before I can second-guess them. "I missed the way you make everything feel like an adventure, the way you see the best in everyone, the way you used to look at me like I was your favorite discovery."

"Used to?" he asks with a soft smile. "Vada, I've been looking at you like that since the moment you ran into me at that cocktail party. You're still my favorite discovery."

When he says that, the last of my resistance crumbles completely. Because this isn't just nostalgia or vacation romance or getting caught up in a beautiful setting. This is Emory, the person who knew me better than anyone, who made me feelcapable of anything, who's looking at me now like eight years apart was just an intermission in a story that's not finished yet.

"This is happening, isn't it?" I ask, though I'm not entirely sure what "this" is.

"I think maybe it never stopped happening,” he says with the kind of honesty that makes my chest tight with emotion.

And then, because we're alone in paradise and he's looking at me like I'm everything he's ever wanted and my heart is so full of possibility I think it might burst, I lean forward and kiss him.

It's supposed to be gentle, tentative, a test of whether this connection is real or just the product of romantic setting and shared memories. But the moment our lips meet, eight years of separation and suppressed longing and current attraction combine into something that's anything but gentle.

He responds immediately, his free hand cupping my face while his mouth moves against mine with the desperate intensity of someone who's been waiting much too long for this moment. I can taste tropical cocktails and something that's purely Emory, familiar and new at the same time.

When we break apart for air, we're both breathing hard and staring at each other with something like amazement.

"Okay," I say, my voice unsteady. "Friends don’t kiss like that."

"The question is, what do we do about it?" he agrees, his thumb stroking across my cheekbone in a gesture that makes me want to melt.

Before I can answer, he's kissing me again, and this time there's nothing tentative about it. His hands tangle in my hair, pulling me closer as I press against him, desperate to eliminateany remaining space between us. Years of wondering "what if" and current desire combine into something that feels absolutely inevitable.

My hands explore the familiar territory of his shoulders and chest, mapping the ways his body has changed while reveling in everything that's exactly the same. When he groans softly against my mouth in response to my touch, the sound goes straight to my core and makes me bold enough to deepen the kiss.

"Vada," he breathes against my lips, and my name sounds like worship and desperation and coming home all at once.

"Don't stop," I whisper back, because stopping now would feel like denying something fundamental and necessary.

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