"Five years ago," he finally says, voice low, "I lived with two roommates. Mike and Jason. College friends."

I remain perfectly still, afraid any movement might stop his words.

"I was away." His knuckles whiten against the counter edge. "There was an electrical fire while I was gone. By the time I got home, the house was already gone. So were they."

My heart constricts. "Alex, I'm so sorry."

"Mike was getting married that summer. Jason had just started medical school." He recites these facts like he's said them many times, each word weighted with grief. "I was the one whoalways checked the wiring, tested the smoke alarms. The one time I wasn't there..."

I move toward him slowly, unsure if my presence will be welcome. "It wasn't your fault."

"That's what everyone says." His voice is rough. "Doesn't make it true."

"Is that why you live like this? All the safety measures, the protocols?"

He nods once, still not looking at me. "Never again. Not on my watch."

Without thinking, I place my hand on his arm. "What happened doesn't define you, Alex. What you did afterward does. And you've dedicated your life to saving others."

He finally turns to face me, and the raw emotion in his eyes steals my breath.

"Sheryl."

"You saved my life," I whisper, moving closer. "Let me help save yours." I don't know where these words come from. They sound like something one of my heroines would say, too dramatic for real life. But they feel right, necessary.

His hand comes up to cup my face, calloused palm warm against my cheek. "You don't know what you're asking for."

"Maybe not," I admit, heart hammering so loudly I'm sure he can hear it. "But I want to find out."

Time stretches between us, taut with possibility. I've written this moment a dozen different ways, but nothing compares to the reality of standing here, caught in the gravity of his gaze, waiting for him to close the distance between us.

When he finally does, it's not the tentative brush of lips I expected. His mouth claims mine with certainty, with hunger, with eighteen years of experience I don't possess. His beard scratches my skin, a delicious friction I've never felt before.

I make a small, embarrassing sound of surprise and pleasure, my hands instinctively grasping his shirt for stability as the kitchen seems to tilt around me.

His arms encircle me, one hand at the small of my back, the other threading through my hair, cradling my head with unexpected gentleness despite the urgency of his kiss.

This, I realize with sudden clarity, is why I've never been able to write a truly convincing first kiss. I've been inventing approximations of something I couldn't possibly understand until this moment—the way it consumes you entirely, how thought becomes impossible, how your body responds with a mind of its own.

When we finally break apart, I'm breathless, clinging to him like he's the only solid thing in a spinning world. He looks as stunned as I feel.

"I'm too old for you." His voice is rough, conflicted. "You're twenty-two. I'm forty."

"I'm old enough to know what I want." I sound braver than I feel.

"And what is that, exactly? Research for your novel?" There's an edge to his question.

The accusation stings, but I recognize the fear behind it. "Is that what you think this is?"

"I think you're young and curious, and I'm convenient inspiration."

"You're infuriating is what you are," I say, surprising myself with the heat in my voice. "I've written two novels without needing to seduce anyone for 'research.' Give me some credit."

"Then what is this?"

"I don't know," I admit. "But it's not research, or curiosity, or gratitude, or whatever other excuse you're looking for to push me away."

His thumb traces my lower lip, sending shivers down my spine. "This is a bad idea."