Page 96 of Stuck with my Guarded MVP
Instead, I slid one hand up to the back of his neck, fingertips brushing the edge of his hair. His hand found my waist and pulled me closer—closer than we’d ever been, but it didn’t feel too close.
It felt like finally.
He paused, just a breath away, forehead resting against mine.
“I’ve wanted to do that,” he murmured, “for a while.”
I didn’t answer right away. I just let my fingers settle at the base of his neck, where his pulse met mine.
Then I pulled back just far enough to see his face. “I really do love when you cook for me,” I said, my voice quiet. “But I think I found something I like about you even more.”
His brow lifted. “Yeah?”
I smiled. “I like the way you kiss me.”
Then I rose up on my toes, closed the distance between us and kissed him.
And this time, he didn’t hold back.
His hand slid from my waist to splay gently between my shoulder blades, pulling me flush against him. My own hand curled into the soft wool of his sweater, right over the fierce, rapid rhythm of his heart.
His kiss deepened, and the world narrowed to the feel of his mouth on mine, the scent of his soap and the solid warmth of him surrounding me.
For years, I told myself this kind of connection wasn’t meant for me. Too messy. Too hopeful. Too much.
But here I was.
And it wasn’t too much. It was everything.
I’d imagined this moment a hundred times. The reality was so much better.
She Was It
My alarm buzzed on the nightstand. I smacked it off and lay there in the quiet, a grin already pulling at my mouth.
The highlights reel started playing.
Claire at the cutting board, trying to focus on the asparagus. Me coming up behind her, kissing the spot right behind her ear. Her shiver. Her trying to sound stern: “The risotto chef is impossible. I can’t get in trouble for pieces that aren’t exactly one inch.”
Me whispering as I kept my chin hooked on her shoulder. "I'm sure the risotto chef will approve of his assistant's work." She elbowed me away, laughing.
Sitting on the balcony after dinner, each in our own chair. My hand rested on the armrest between us, her fingers laced through mine. Not saying much.
Her standing to go to bed. The pause. Her leaning over my chair, her hair a curtain around our faces as she kissed me.
I kicked off the sheets. I had to make coffee.
The clean kitchen was a quiet reminder of last night. I set the machine going, the familiar routine feeling brand new. I could still see her, drying the risotto pot I’d handed her, her laughter echoing off the tiles as she’d mock-scolded me for splashing her. The gurgle and hiss of the brewer filled the quiet that now felt full, not empty.
I heard the door to her bedroom open. I turned from the counter.
She shuffled into the kitchen, barefoot, wrapped in that giant hoodie. Her hair was a mess, and she squinted against the light. Perfect.
She aimed a sleepy smile at me and reached for the mug I’d just filled.
I moved it an inch out of her reach and hooked a finger in the belt loop of her pants, pulling her to me. Her body was warm against mine.
“I still love being the first person to see you each morning,” I said. Her eyes, still soft with sleep, held mine. “Now I get to kiss you every morning too.”
