Page 31 of Hale Yeah, It’s You

The smile never leaves my lips on the short drive back to Roman’s place.

The rain hasn’t dampened the mood—if anything, it’s heightened it, wrapping the world in a hush that’s intimate, secret.

The rhythmic sweep of the wiper blades and the soft percussion of rain on the hood create a comforting soundtrack, a private melody for just the two of us.

Our date is winding down, but I find myself wishing I could slow time, stretch these moments until they spill over and become something more.

The rain intensifies, the windshield blurring more with each drop.

I should focus on the road, but all I hear is Roman’s voice.

That low, husky rumble as he recounts the chaos of the last soccer game he coached—one of the seniors pranking the assistant coach, a ball that sailed through a car window, the kind of nonsense teenage boys will always find hilarious.

I laugh, already imagining the scene, but what really stays with me is the way Roman lights up when he talks about his students.

There’s something magnetic about it—about him .

It pulls at me, makes me want to see him on that field, commanding attention, completely in his element.

As I ease into his driveway, the rain thrums harder against the roof, a steady roar. Roman turns in his seat, his hand resting gently on my thigh, the warmth of it spreading like wildfire through me.

“Are you in a rush to get home?” he asks.

Home. The word feels different now. It’s not Gram’s house, not the place I left or the one I found. It’s become a feeling I haven’t quite named. A place I haven’t quite claimed.

I turn off the car, shifting to face him. “No,” I say, voice softer than before. “No big rush.”

“Good.” His grin is slow, deliberate. Dangerous in the best way. My heart hiccups in my chest.

He opens his door, then jogs around to mine like he can’t get to me fast enough.

I don’t even get a chance to protest before he’s pulling me out of the car, our fingers tangling.

He tugs me into the downpour, and I let out a breathless squeal as cold water soaks my shoes, the grass squishing underfoot.

“What are we doing?” I laugh, the wind stealing the words from my lips.

“Recreating history,” he shouts, eyes gleaming as he leads me around the side of the house.

He unlatches the wooden gate in one swift motion, and we press forward. The rain is relentless now, pounding against my sweater until it clings to my skin. Every step pulls us deeper into a memory I hadn’t let myself revisit in years.

And then—we’re there. The wraparound porch appears through the curtain of rain.

Even stripped of its summer blooms, the place is still enchanted.

The ivy crawls along the lattice, clinging to the bones of the house, and the rosebushes stand tall despite the season.

And the weeping willow—God, that tree—it still guards the space like a keeper of the past .

Roman pulls me up the steps, through the familiar curtain of ivy, into the shadowed alcove where he once kissed me for the first time. My breath catches.

Back then, he was nervous, fumbling, a boy on the edge of something he didn’t yet understand. But tonight? He’s a man—steady, sure—and everything about him says, I remember, too .

The memory flickers between us like lightning in the storm. But this time, I stay rooted in the now.

He presses me gently against the brick wall, cold and solid at my back. Rain trickles down his face, catching in his lashes. His hands frame my jaw, reverent, like I’m something precious. I reach up and pull the clip from my hair, letting the wet strands fall free.

His eyes lock on mine, and suddenly there’s no air left to breathe. Everything is in his gaze—questions, memories, hunger, hope. I wrap my arms around his waist and pull him to me.

It’s the only invitation he needs.

He crashes into me like a storm surge, lips on mine, hands in my hair, breath tangled with mine. His kiss is demanding, aching, slow and searing all at once. Our mouths find their rhythm, and I forget the chill of my clothes, the rain still falling around us. The only thing that exists is him .

His tongue teases mine, deliberate and slow, coaxing and claiming.

My fingers grip the fabric at his back, and then, desperate to feel more, pull him closer, memorizing every inch.

He groans into my mouth, the sound vibrating straight through me.

His hands trail down to my waist, then slide up underneath my shirt, warm fingers against my chilled skin.

When he breaks the kiss to drag his mouth along my jaw, down the column of my neck, I shiver—but not from the cold.

“You taste even better than I remember,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the sensitive spot beneath my ear. “I don’t know how I’ve survived so long without you. ”

The words splinter something in me, then knit it back together.

I kiss him again, trying to tell him without saying it— I missed you, too.

I’ve never stopped. My hands slide under his shirt, across his bare back, and he lets out a breathy curse against my mouth, one hand gripping my hip, the other fisting into my hair.

Our kisses slow, deepen. I pull back just enough to speak, my breath shaky. “I’ve missed you.”

Roman looks at me like he’s waited a decade to hear those words. “I’ve missed you, too,” he says, his voice rough with emotion. He leans in, brushing his lips against mine again, soft and slow this time, almost like a question waiting for an answer.

“Tonight was wonderful,” I whisper, kissing him one more time.

“For me, too.” He closes his eyes and rests his forehead against mine, his breath warm against my lips. We’re soaked, clothes heavy and plastered to our skin, mascara undoubtedly smudged all over my cheeks.

I laugh, wiping at my face. “We’re a mess.”

Roman grins and uses his sleeve to gently clean the black streaks from beneath my eyes. “I got so caught up in recreating our first kiss, I didn’t think about how wet we’d get.”

“It was worth it,” I say. “Even if I look like a drowned raccoon.”

“Prettiest drowned raccoon I’ve ever seen,” he murmurs. “I don’t think it was raining this hard the first time. And we definitely had to be quiet so no one would hear us sneaking around.”

I run my fingers through his soaked hair, sweeping it away from his forehead. I’ve wanted to touch him like this all night. “No one has ever kissed me like you.”

Roman stills. Then slowly, he takes my hand from his hair and places it over his heart.

“I’ve never kissed anyone the way I kiss you. ”

The weight of his words, the truth in them, steals my breath. I see it in his eyes—this isn’t just nostalgia. It’s real. It always has been.

Maybe he’s kissed others. Maybe I have, too. But none of it matters. Because right now, right here, the only thing that matters is us . And this time, it’s not about chance—it’s about choice.

I shove aside the fear, the ache of the past, and kiss him like my life depends on it.

I grip the hand that’s still pressed to his chest and pull him impossibly closer, until our hearts are beating in tandem.

Until the past and the future blur, and all I can feel is this —this moment, this man, this love that’s endured.

Roman matches me, breath for breath, heartbeat for heartbeat. His hands roam my back, my hips, like he’s relearning me. And I let him. I want him to.

For the first time in a long, long time, I believe I could have it all.

When it gets too cold to stay outside, Roman invites me in to dry off and clean up. I’m grateful for any excuse to linger—part of me is terrified that when I leave, the spell might lift, the magic will fade. I want to hold onto this night for as long as I possibly can.

“There are fresh towels in the bathroom,” he says, nodding toward the door down the hall. “I’ll find you something to wear while your clothes dry.” His voice is calm, but the pink flush in his cheeks tells me he’s not as unaffected as he’s pretending to be.

By the time I peel myself out of my soaked clothes, I’m shivering.

I step into the hot shower, letting the water hit my skin in soothing, steaming waves.

Slowly, the chill works its way out of my bones.

I wash myself with the soap Roman uses, breathing him in with every lathered handful.

My hair smells like him. My skin is already memorizing his touch.

When I finally step out, the bathroom is wrapped in a fog of warmth.

I towel my body dry, then pause when I catch my reflection in the mirror.

No longer a drowned raccoon—I almost laugh at the thought.

My eyes are bright now, still soft at the corners from smiling.

My lips are swollen and pink from kissing, and there's a new flush across my cheeks. There’s something alive in my expression, something wild and awake.

I recognize myself, but I also don’t. I look like a woman in love.

A soft knock taps on the door. “Want me to set these clothes outside for you?” Roman’s voice carries through the wood, lower now, quieter—like the intimacy of the night has seeped into his every word.

I crack the door open, gripping the towel tight with one hand as I reach for the clothes with the other. He’s standing there barefoot, in a fitted T-shirt and gray joggers, his damp hair curling slightly at the edges. God, he looks good. Soft and safe and sexy all at once.

“Thanks,” I say with a smile, my heart thudding as our fingers brush.

“I’ll throw your wet ones in the dryer and start a fire,” he offers, that nervous smile tugging at the edge of his mouth like he’s waiting for me to laugh or pull away.

Instead, I nod, closing the door to gather my soaked clothes. I wedge my bra and underwear between my jeans and shirt—somehow the act seems more intimate than being naked in front of him. It’s been so long since we’ve been like this, but everything is new again, charged.