Page 53 of Letting Go

The puppy lets out a tiny yawn and then pees on the rug again.

I sigh, reach for the paper towels, and mutter, “Love is such a mess.”

Hannah leaves with one last squeeze of my shoulder and a promise to text me the name of that rug cleaner she swears by. Roxy watches her go with a soft little tail wag. The puppy is already asleep inside one of my sneakers, which I will now never wear again.

I’m halfway through googling how to train a Pomeranian mix who pees every fifteen minutes, when there’s a knock at the door.

I freeze. Because no one knocks anymore. People text. They call. They loiter in the driveway likeMichael, that human root canal. A knock is... intentional.

I tiptoe to the door like it might explode and peek through the window.

It’s Caden, with bags.

I open the door slowly.

“Hi,” he says. Voice low. Unbothered. Like this is totally normal. Like we aren’t standing on the threshold of my heartbreak home, flanked by dog pee and unresolved flirtation.

“Um,” I manage, glancing at the bags. “Did you… get evicted?”

He smirks, shifting his weight. “You said you had two mouths to feed. I figured I’d bring my own fork.”

I blink. “What?”

“Joking,” he says, quickly. “Mostly. I brought these,” he lifts the bags, “because I thought maybe I could help. Dog supplies. Food. Pads. Beds. I didn’t know what size she was, so I asked the salesman for a Pomeranian one.”

My heart does a stupid, traitorous little flip.

“And,” he adds, his voice quieter now, eyes meeting mine in that too-intense way that always makes me feel like my ribcage forgot to close, “I kind of just wanted to see you.”

Oh. Oh, we’re doing this.

“I probably should’ve asked,” he continues, finally looking a little sheepish. His voice is softer now, like he's suddenly aware of the line he’s toeing.

“You probably should’ve,” I agree, folding my arms across my chest because I have no idea what else to do with them, and if I don't do something, I might reach for him.

We stand there in silence. Not awkward, just still. Behind me, one dog is snoring, the other is probably peeing somewhere she shouldn't, and I'm standing in my doorway with a man who makes my stomach feel like it’s full of warm soda and regret.

“I can leave,” he says. Quiet. Honest. No pressure.

And maybe he means it. Maybe he’d walk away if I asked him to.

But instead of answering, I do something that has the potential of either being a colossal mistake or the best damn leap I’ll ever take.

I close the gap between us and kiss him. Hard. Quick. Almost like a dare.

His mouth is warm and surprised against mine, and for a second, neither of us breathes. My hands are in his shirt before I even know I’ve moved. His bags hit the porch with a dull thud I barely register because his hands are suddenly on my waist, and my body is lighting up like I just stuck a fork in an outlet labelled Caden.

I’m kissing him like I’ve been holding my breath since the day I caught Michael in bed with my sister.

Like this man is air.

I pull back before I do something even more impulsive, like hump him in the doorway where Mrs Kowalski could see.

He stares at me, breathless and wide-eyed. “Okay,” he says, voice rough. “I’ll take that as a maybe-I-can-stay?”

I nod. My voice is still somewhere between his lips and my spine, so I just gesture toward the inside of the house.

He picks up the bags and takes a step inside.

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