Page 67 of Brash for It
I look out at the water, dark and endless.“I don’t know how to do this,” I admit, the words rough like they don’t want to leave my throat.
She waits.Doesn’t fill the silence.Just waits.
I drag in a breath.“I’ve never felt like this before.I’ve never brought anyone in, never cared what the hell they thought about me after the night was done.But you—” I break off, shake my head.“Kristen, I love you.And I don’t know what to do with that.”
The air stills.My heart hammers hard enough I swear she can hear it.For a second, I think I’ve ruined it, said too much, tipped us into a place we can’t climb out of.
Then she smiles.Small at first, then wide, lighting her whole face.She slides both arms around my waist, presses her forehead to my chest.
“You don’t do anything with it,” she whispers.“You hold it.You hold me.And we treasure each other.”She tips her head back, eyes steady on mine.“Because I’m in love with you too.”
The ground tilts under me.Not in a bad way—in the way you know you’ve been walking crooked your whole damn life and suddenly someone sets you straight.
I cup her face, kiss her slow, deep, every ounce of what I can’t put into words poured into the press of my mouth against hers.She answers with that same certainty, like she’s been waiting for me to catch up.
When we break apart, I rest my forehead against hers, breathing her in.“Say it again,” I murmur, needing it like air.
“I love you,” she says without hesitation.“I love you, Kellum Perchton.”
The mixed emotions that have been riding me since the clubhouse breaks apart like smoke in wind.What’s left is fire, but a different kind—the kind that warms instead of burns.
I kiss her again, harder this time, lifting her off her feet, spinning her once in the gravel just to hear her laugh.She’s mine.And she chooses me in return.That truth is louder than anything else.
When I set her down, I jerk my chin at the bike.“Let’s go home.”
Her smile curves into something soft and dangerous.“Home sounds perfect.”
We don’t talk much on the way back.We don’t need to.The road understands what was said at the water and keeps its mouth shut about it, just lays out the miles and lets us ride them.By the time we turn onto our street, the sun’s gone low and long; the houses have that soft-edged look that makes everything feel closer than it is.
The camera blinks like a tiny heartbeat over the door.I kill the engine and the silence that follows isn’t awkward or heavy.It’s comfortable.
She slides off the back, helmet tucked to her hip, eyes on me like she can’t figure out how to stop smiling and doesn’t want to.I take her hand, because I don’t know what else to do with all this.
Inside, the house smells like what it always smells like—lemon cleaner, old coffee a little burned in the pot, something warm that’s just us.The map watches from the wall, planting a seed in my mind.One day soon, we’ll begin filling the map with the trips we take together.I want to show her the world my way.I toss my keys in the dish.Cut on the chair and home feels more right than every before.
She steps close, palms flat on my chest, fingers curling into cotton like she’s trying to hold the words steady where I said them.“You okay?”she asks, quiet, a little breathless.
“Better than.”My voice scrapes on the way out.I let it.“Say it again.”
Her mouth curves.“I love you.”
I lean in and kiss her before my brain can throw any more stops onto the track.It’s not the kind of kiss that asks for proof or makes a point.It’s the kind that says we are here and means home is with you.She answers with the same relief, the same kind of hunger that has nothing to do with starving and everything to do with coming in from the cold.
I lift her, and she laughs into my mouth—soft and surprised like joy snuck up on her.Her legs hook around my hips without a pause.I carry her down the hall, bump my shoulder on the doorframe because I’m not looking where I’m going.She’s looking back at me, and I swear I feel something in my chest settle into a fullness like never before.
The bedroom is dim.The blinds are half-closed, a sliver of moonlight laying an silver line across the floor.I set her down on the edge of the bed and step back just enough to see her.She reaches for me anyway, a little half-grab at my shirt like maybe I’ll forget how to be here if she gives me too much space.
“I’m right here,” I tell her.“I’m not going anywhere.”
“I know.”She swallows.“Me either.”
I strip my tee over my head and it’s the first time taking off a shirt has ever felt like laying a weapon down.Her hands are on me right away, mapping, confirming—shoulder, chest, the old scar near my ribs that Tommy Boy gave me when I was fourteen.She touches it and I catch her hand and kiss her wrist because I’m not defined by my scars, not the one there or the one on my face.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” I say, the promise as much a habit now as locking the door.
“I’ll tell you if I want you to stop,” she echoes, mouth tipping, brave.Then, she winks, “But, I won’t want you to stoop.”
We take our time.We unbutton and untie and unhook like people who don’t mind that the best parts of a ritual are the slow ones.There’s heat, but there’s also quiet threaded through it, a knowing that makes my hands gentler than they’ve ever been and somehow more certain.I can’t stop kissing the corner of her mouth.She laughs once when I do it again, and I memorize the exact sound because I want to hear it for the rest of my life.
