Page 136 of Off-Limits as Puck

After dinner, we walk to the parking garage in comfortable silence. Chris hugs Chelsea goodbye—real affection, not obligation—and shakes my hand with the kind of firmness that suggests approval rather than politeness.

“Take care of each other,” he says before getting into his rental car.

“We will,” Chelsea promises.

When he’s gone, we stand there in the concrete echo of an underground garage, processing what just happened. A year ago, this dinner would have been impossible. Six months ago, it would have been a disaster. Tonight, it felt like family.

“That went well,” I say finally.

“Better than well. That was him giving us his blessing.”

“Did we need his blessing?”

“I did. Not because I can’t make my own choices, but because having his support means I don’t have to choose between loving you and loving my family.”

I pull her close, wrapping my arms around her in a way that probably violates several public decency laws but feels too necessary to care about consequences.

“Chelsea,” I say into her hair, “I’m not going back to an empty apartment tonight.”

“No?”

“No. I don’t want to spend another night away from you. Don’t want to keep pretending we’re taking this slow when we both know exactly what we want.”

She pulls back to look at me, eyes bright with something that looks like relief and possibility and the particular joy that comes from finally admitting what you’ve been thinking.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying let’s stop pretending geography and separate leases make sense when we’d rather wake up next to each other every morning.”

“You want to move in together?”

“I want to build something real with you. Starting tonight.”

She rises up on her toes and kisses me right there in the parking garage, tasting like wine and promise and the particular sweetness of choosing someone completely.

“Your place or mine?” she asks when we break apart.

“Ours,” I say. “Let’s go to ours.”

50

Some decisions are made with careful consideration and weighted pros and cons, but the best ones happen the moment you stop thinking and start feeling.

We barely make it through my front door before his hands are in my hair and my back is against the wall, months of careful boundaries dissolving like sugar in rain. His mouth finds mine with the kind of desperation that comes from wanting someone so completely that proximity becomes a physical need.

“Chelsea,” he breathes against my lips, voice rough with want and something deeper.

“I know,” I manage, already fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. “I know.”

We’re a tangle of urgent hands and half-formed words, mapping each other with the frantic energy of people who’ve been holding back too long. My blazer hits the floor somewhere between the entryway and the kitchen, followed by his shirt and any pretensethat we’re going to take this slow.

He lifts me onto the kitchen counter with the kind of easy strength that makes my brain forget how to form coherent thoughts. The granite is cold against my thighs, but his hands are warm, tracing patterns on my skin like he’s memorizing every inch.

“You sure about this?” he asks, even as his fingers work the buttons of my blouse.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

“Good. Because I don’t think I could stop now if you asked me to.”

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