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If I kiss you again tonight, I’m not gonna pretend it’s just because the food was good.
And he had. Twice.
Once on the dock, with his hands wrapped tight around my waist like he was holding back a storm.
And once before I went inside—softer that time, slower, like he wanted to memorize the shape of my mouth before letting me go.
Both had wrecked me.
And now, in the quiet of morning, I could still feel them.
He’d walked me to my door, eyes dark and serious,and touched my face like he didn’t trust himself to go any further.
“Not tonight,” he said, voice thick. “You deserve more than fast and desperate.”
I didn’t know what that meant, exactly.
But it had taken everything in me not to ask him to stay anyway.
Now, in the cool morning light, with my windows cracked and the ceiling fan ticking gently above me, I felt everything all at once.
Shame.
Longing.
Hope.
Confusion.
The scent of salt still clung to my hair from the breeze off Shem Creek, and my chest still tightened when I thought about the way he’d looked at me—like I wasn’t just a woman in a blue dress. Like I was something he'd been searching for longer than he’d admit.
And Lord help me, I’d wanted to be that.
Even now, part of me still did.
I pressed a hand to my stomach, where the ache of want hadn’t fully settled. I was twenty-seven years old, a teacher, a pastor’s daughter, a woman raised to be good.
I’d never felt anything like last night.
Not with the sweet boys from youth group. Not with the Bible college guy who’d quoted Proverbs and kissed like he was afraid to open his mouth. Not even with the one I thought I might marry, back when I was twenty-three and still mistaking niceness for connection.
Noah wasn’t nice.
But he’d made me feel seen.
And now I didn’t know what to do with that.
I swung my legs off the side of the bed, wrapping my robe tighter as I padded barefoot to the kitchen. The coffee was already brewed—automatic timer, thank the Lord—and I poured a cup with trembling hands, trying not to think about the way his had felt on my hips.
I wasn’t supposed to want that.
Not yet. Not like that.
But wanting didn’t care what I was supposed to do.
The first sip of coffee burned a little, and I leaned against the counter, staring out the window at the quiet street below. It was still early. Pale light filtered through the trees, and a neighbor jogged by with a golden retriever, both of them too chipper for a Saturday.
I hadn’t even turned on my phone yet.