Page 11 of The Twelve-Hour Rule
“I should get back,” I say, though my feet don’t move.
He nods slowly. “I’ll walk you.”
We climb the path toward the main building, the sound of the ocean fading behind us. The lights from the lobbycast everything in gold, and I realize I’m holding my breath. Anticipating something I’ve been so reticent about.
At my door, we stop. For a second, neither of us says anything and the world feels strangely quiet.
“Thanks for dinner,” I manage.
“Thanks for letting me crash your last night. Again.”
“That’s becoming a pattern.”
He smiles, small and deliberate. “Could be worse patterns.”
I laugh under my breath, and that’s all it takes. He steps a little closer, slow enough that I could move away if I wanted to, but I don’t. Every single one of the words my friends uttered about letting go and having fun plays on repeat in my brain, and maybe I should listen.
“Sol,” he says quietly. My name in his voice feels different, low and careful, like he’s testing it.
I look up at him, and something shifts.
All day, I’ve been running on calm—steady and controlled. But right now, every nerve feels alive, and that streak of spontaneity that tugged at me in the early morning hours comes back again, full force.
I shouldn’t.
But I want to.
And maybe, for once, wanting is reason enough.
When he leans in, I meet him halfway. The kiss starts tentative, a question; then it’s heat and salt and months of quiet spilling over all at once.
He pulls back just enough to breathe. “You sure?”
“Yes,” I say, before I can talk myself out of it.
CHAPTER 6
SOL
The word hangs between us,thin as breath. Then Ben smiles, slow and certain, and everything in me stumbles forward.
He reaches for the door, fumbles with the key card he grabbed from my hand, and laughs against my mouth when it doesn’t work the first time. The second beep feels like a relief, because I think I would have backed out of this if it failed. We topple inside, half-blind, half-breathless, the door swinging shut behind us.
The room smells a little musty, but it’s cool and refreshing after spending the last few hours outside. The only light comes from the window, a strip of warmth across the tile. My back hits the wall, his hands finding my waist, and suddenly I’m aware of how alive my own heartbeat feels. We kiss again, slower this time, and the quiet becomes charged—like the air right before a lightning storm.
I should stop and think. But my brain has gone still in the best possible way.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. “Are you okay?”
I nod. It’s not a lie.
“Good,” he murmurs, and brushes a strand of hair from my cheek. Then he pulls me into the room, threading his fingerswith mine, and pushes me gently on the bed. Ben reaches toward the nightstand. “I want to see you.”
The lamp flickers on, gold, low, and forgiving. The light makes everything look softer: the curve of his jaw, the faint freckles on his arms, the shadows of us on the crisp white bedspread. For a second, I almost tell him to turn it off, the reflex to hide still wired into me. But he’s watching me like I’m something he doesn’t want to miss.
And I allow it.
Every small movement feels deliberate—the slide of fabric, the press of skin. The world shrinks to the sound of our breathing and the people outside muffled through glass. When his hands find mine, I stop thinking altogether.
