Page 72 of The Final Faceoff
“I don’t regret it,” I admit, my voice quiet but unwavering. “The kiss.”
His expression shifts—not a flicker, not a twitch, but something deeper, something tectonic. A loosening. A letting go. It’s as if he had been holding his breath for a lifetime, and only now, with those words, does he finally exhale. His shoulders drop a fraction, the tightness around his mouth dissolves. Relief, raw and unguarded, rushes in like a tide pulling away from the shore.
For a moment, he just looks at me, like I’m something he never thought he’d have, something he never let himself want too much. His Adam’s apple bobs. His lips part. But he doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.
Because I feel it.
The way the air between us hums, charged with something electric, something inevitable. The way his eyes darken, like the moment before a storm, and I know—I know—if I reached for him now, he wouldn’t pull away.
“But I don’t know how to do this,” I continue, swallowing against the panic tightening in my throat. “I don’t know how to be with you—like that.”
Like wanting him isn’t an earthquake shaking up everything I thought I knew about us. Like this isn’t dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with kissing and everything to do with how easy it would be to fall.
“And I—I don’t want to lose you.”
He watches me for a long moment, like he’s cataloging every crack in my resolve, every unspoken thought I don’t have the guts to voice.
Then, he exhales, long and slow, his fingers brushing against my cheek. A touch so careful it makes me ache, like he knows exactly how close I am to unraveling.
And maybe I am.
Maybe I’ve been unraveling since the second his lips touched mine.
“I get it,” he says, and I know he means it.
I close my eyes for a beat, exhaling slowly, feeling his touch like it’s the only thing anchoring me.
“I don’t trust myself with you,” I whisper.
His thumb drags across my bottom lip, slow, teasing. “Good. Because I don’t trust myself with you either.”
I open my eyes, meeting his gaze head-on. “So what do we do?”
His lips curve. “Well, you clearly have some needs.”
I groan, smacking his arm, but he just laughs.
“I’m serious,” he says. “You want me. I want you. Why are we pretending otherwise?”
“Because it’s complicated.”
“If there’s something I’ve learned from the moment I met you, it’s that everything with you is complicated, Hailey.” His tone is fond, teasing, maddening. “You’re my favorite complication.”
I glare. “You think you’re cute, don’t you?”
“I think I’m right.”
Damn it.
I push myself slightly away from him, trying to ignore the way my body still hums with awareness, still aches for him. Hormones. That’s all this is. Stupid, irritating hormones.
I let out a slow, self-deprecating sigh. “I hate this.”
He grins. “You hate that you want me. Well, at least you accept that part.”
I groan, tossing my head back. “Fine. Yes. I do.”
His smile deepens, and he leans in, his breath a whisper against my skin. “So let’s fix that.”
