Page 54 of Letting Go

And maybe I’ll panic later. Maybe I’ll hate myself in the morning. Maybe this is completely reckless and unprofessional and way too soon.

But right now?

Right now, it’s the first time I’ve felt anything like alive in months.

And I’m not sorry.

Chapter 20

The food smells like garlic and butter and my stomach growls. Caden unpacks it while I pretend, I’m not watching him too closely, even though I totally am. He’s wearing a black shirt, sleeves shoved up his forearms, collar loose. Dark pants that hang just right. Tattoos peek from under one sleeve, just enough ink to make me curious, just enough to remember him mentioning them last week.My reckless teenage rebellion, he’d said, like it was no big deal.

But right now? It feels like a very big deal.

He's holding the puppy like she belongs to him. Roxie’s settled by his feet. I swear to God, even my emotionally traumatized rescue dogs are falling for him.

I light the candles I bought for myself weeks ago and never used. Not once. Not even during my worst lonely night, when I ordered takeout and cried into a pint of cookie dough. But tonight, I light them. Because suddenly I want everything to feel a little softer. A little more intentional.

“Fancy,” he says, smiling as I set out plates This feels weirdly domestic.

“I had candles,” I say, trying to sound casual as I tug down the hem of my shirt. “Seemed like a waste to let them gather dust.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just watches me. Like I’m something worth watching.

And then we sit. We eat. Or try to.

Because I can barely taste the food over the tension between us. His knee brushes mine under the table once. Then again. Not an accident. Not anymore.

His gaze catches mine, slow and lingering, and something warm starts coiling in my belly. A dangerous little flutter. I look down at my plate, but it doesn’t help.

“Your dogs love me,” he says, leaning back in his chair, arms loose on either side like he owns the space now. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “That means something, right?”

“Means they have no judgment.”

“You sure about that?” he says, voice lower now. “Because I think they know a good thing when they see it.”

I feel it then, that flicker of heat crawling up my neck, settling low in my stomach.

I stand, taking our plates before I say something liketake me upstairs and ruin me. He follows me into the kitchen, brushing past just close enough that my breath catches.

And when I turn around, he’s there. Too close. The kind of close that makes it hard to think.

He walks until both his hands are on the counter, caging me in. “You didn’t ask to stay,” I murmur, leaning back against the counter.

“You didn’t tell me not to.”

Then his fingers graze my hip. Barely there. A whisper of touch. And I forget how to breathe again.

“You don’t make it easy,” I say, swallowing hard as he kisses the side of my head.

“Neither do you,” he says, and then he kisses me, for real.

Not soft this time. Not hesitant.

It’s hungry. Deep. Like he’s been holding back since the second I opened the door.

His hands find my waist, grip firm. I press into him like my body doesn’t care about timing or labels or the messy disaster of what we are.

I thread my fingers through his hair, tug him closer. He groans, low in his throat, and it shoots straight through me.

---