Page 126 of Between Love and War
My breath catches—not just at the words, but at how close he is now. I can smell the faint hint of coffee on his shirt, the sweet burn of sugar on his skin.
He doesn’t ask again this time. Just leans in, slow but sure, his hand skimming up my arm, fingers slipping under the bend of my elbow to pull me forward. The other hand comes up to cradle my jaw, thumb brushing my cheek in a lazy circle.
His body slots against mine, and he deepens the kiss. His hand slips to the small of my back, pulling me tighter, while the other keeps my face exactly where he wants it.
The cooling oven clicks in the background. Rain patters against the front window. Somewhere, a chocolate chip collapses in on itself.
I break away just enough to catch my breath, our foreheads still pressed together. His smile is wicked now. Like he knows how wrecked I feel, and how the heat is spreading everywhere in me.
I’m still breathing him in when I realize I don’t want to move. Not now. Not ever.
And that’s what makes this so different from before. Back then, I would’ve laughed nervously and deflected. Made a joke. I wasn’t used to intimacy. To men looking at me like this.
But I’m not that girl anymore.
I’m not the one who stays on the edges, watching other people live big lives while I convince myself mine is fine. I’m not the one who says yes because it’s easier, or no because I’m scared, or nothing at all because I don’t think I get to have a say.
I’m still soft. I still cry at animal videos. I still name my plants, appliances, and I still swoon over romance novels.
But now, I also… choose. I choose where my time goes, who gets my energy, what I want to build. I take up space withoutapologizing for it. I say no without a five-paragraph justification. I mess up recipes and try again. I co-run a program that shows kids they can be more than one thing. I’m opening a bakery that is entirely, unapologetically mine.
The girl who once thought ‘control’ meant holding a cigarette at a hiding spot now knows it can mean walking away from what doesn’t serve her. It can mean saying yes to something she actually wants. It can mean building a life where her voice is the loudest in the room when it comes to her own choices.
And Michael—he didn’t swoop in and change me like some hero in a fairy tale. He didn’t hand me confidence like it was something he owned. He loved me where I was, exactly as I was, and somehow that made it easier to love myself. He nudged me forward when I was afraid to take the next step, stayed close when the ground felt unsteady, and never once asked me to be anything other than me. He matched my pace when I could only walk, slowed down when I needed to catch my breath, and when I was finally ready to run, he ran with me. Still does.
“This is gonna be a long night,” Michael says as he cuts through my thoughts.
“For you and me both,” I reply.
His hand finds mine just before his mouth does, kissing me again, pressing me gently against the wall. I lace our fingers together, smiling against his lips.
I guess I’m also the girl who makes out with her boyfriend in her kitchen, oven still on, flour in her hair, and no interest in stopping.
Michael reaches for the curtain rope beside me, and closes the curtains so no one outside can see. He smiles at me, in a more… wicked way than he usually does.
So I reach for the light switch on the other side, stretching dramatically even though I know I can’t get it. Michael chuckles,deep and low, before leaning across me to flick it off himself. The bakery sinks into shadow, the hum of the refrigerators in the back the only sound for a moment.
“Was that what you were trying to do?” he teases, his voice a little rougher in the dark.
“Maybe.” I try to sound casual, but my laugh comes out thin. “What? I’ve read enough books to know this is how it starts.”
That earns me another chuckle, this one closer, heavier. “Kate.” He shakes his head, and even without the light I can feel the weight of his gaze. “This isn’t one of your paperbacks. This is real. You and me.”
My cheeks burn, but I lift my chin anyway. “So? Maybe I want the real thing.”
For a second, he just looks at me, and I swear I hear his restraint in the way he exhales. Then his hand comes up, cupping my jaw softly, like I’m something he doesn’t want to risk breaking. “If we do this, we do it because you’re ready. Not because some book told you this is how it’s supposed to go.”
I bite back a smile, nerves buzzing like soda fizz. “What if it’s both?”
His thumb brushes my cheek, and his voice dips lower, firmer, every word certain. “Then tell me you’re sure. And I’ll give you the kind of first time no book could ever come close to.”
My breath stumbles, and I say, with full conviction, “I’m sure.”
And the he kisses me again, and everything else fades.
I used to think I was behind in life. Like everyone else had sprinted ahead while I was still tying my shoes. Like I’d missed some unspoken deadline for figuring out who you are and what you want.
But I wasn’t behind. I was just… walking the scenic route. And yeah, it took a while to get here. But if this is where the roadleads—this life, this love, this messy mix of softness and big, terrifying dreams—then I’d take the long way.
