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Why the hell did I kiss her? Why did I stop her from leaving? I could’ve avoided all of this if I’d just let her go.

Now I’m stuck with the memory of her lips on mine.

As good as she tastes, it feels like a failure.

I was doing the right thing by keeping my distance.

I’ve been told enough times—I’m not relationship material.

I’m not the kind of man worth waiting for.

I’m half a person still figuring out how to function alone, let alone with someone else.

I don’t agree with that last part. I’m fine on my own. I have structure. I’m stable. I take care of myself, and I trust my ability to do so. It’s the connection beyond the physical—that’s where things fall apart. That’s where the real trouble starts.

My emotions are mine. My thoughts are mine.

I handle them in silence, and sharing them feels wrong.

Giving someone access to my fears, my doubts, my vulnerabilities—only ever gave them the power to cut deep.

I learned that the hard way, early on. There’s no reason to test a theory that’s already proven true.

I knew all of this before I kissed Nora.

So why the hell did I do it?

And worse—why does one taste of her, one solid feel of her pressed against me, knowing she wants me just as much—make me want more?

Obviously, I want more because I’m a man , I snort. A man who’s gone too long without getting laid.

“Stop thinking about her,” I mutter, jaw tight. And that’s what I need to do. What I will do.

Starting now.

***

It’s my day off. I picked up a shift yesterday just to avoid any and every temptation to seek Nora out. It’s been three days since I kissed her.

Three days since I ordered her to leave and ignored the confusion and hurt on her face.

Three days since I stood in the chilly rain just to get my dick and mind under control.

I got angry with myself, got twice as pissed at her, and then the idea of her going out and kissing someone else wormed under my skin until I nearly went to the Airbnb I know she’s renting.

With such a small town, everyone talks and I didn’t have to ask to learn she’s staying at the cabin just outside of town in the woods. I haven’t gone.

I won’t go.

Because I can’t keep her.

I won’t ruin her, get her hopes up, then show her every terrible, scarred, sharp part of me.

Even if she accepted all that, I’d erode all her softness.

I would destroy everything that makes her .

.. her. Like an earthquake shaking loose everything in a city and flattening skyscrapers.

She’d be a hastily restacked pile of memories and personality traits that wouldn’t fit anymore.

I can’t do that to her. I can’t do it to anyone and accept that weight on my shoulders.

There’s enough piled on my back already.

I stick to it for a while but then the silence starts to bother me.

What if she got lost on one of the trails? Wandered too far off into some back holler and ran into trouble?

Worse, what if she left? No warning. No note. No last look or promise of another letter.

For reasons I don’t have the energy—or the courage—to fully question, those thoughts feel unbearable. Maybe it’s the insomnia. Maybe it’s just her.

But not knowing if she’s okay, not knowing if she’s here ... it’s getting under my skin. Twisting in my gut until I’m more restless than I’ve been in years.

And maybe a little less sane than I care to admit.

All I need to do is see her. See her car, see her cooking or lounging inside the cabin and I’ll go. She doesn’t have to see me at all. I just need to know she is safe.

I pull into her driveway slow and quiet, parking far enough back that she won’t spot me from the porch. I get out of the truck, cursing myself the whole time. What the hell am I even doing?

I creep closer—half-hoping she’s not home, half-hoping she is. Just as I’m about to turn around and quit being a damn stalker, I catch a glimpse of her.

She’s sitting on the porch, arms wrapped around herself, her body still except for the slow sway of the rocking chair.

Her hair is down, the breeze tugging it gently across her shoulders.

I can’t see her face from this angle, but her posture says enough—tense, guarded, like she’s carrying something heavy.

I exhale and move closer, boots crunching on the gravel. That’s when she hears me.

Her head jerks slightly. She turns, and when her eyes meet mine, they widen in surprise. Color rushes into her cheeks, but she doesn’t rise. Her hands grip the arms of the chair, holding herself in place.

I step onto the porch and clear my throat.

“You look like something’s weighing on you.”

She nods once, slowly.

I hesitate. “Should I assume what’s on your mind or—”

“You already know,” she cuts in, standing abruptly.

The motion surprises even her, and she catches herself before sinking back into the chair.

She looks down, flustered but not retreating.

“I’m trying to be reasonable, but I can’t pretend the kiss didn’t happen.

Maybe you can, but I can’t. You kissed me. .. and then you walked away.”

Her honesty catches me off guard. My mouth opens before I’ve thought anything through. “It’s not about you. It’s just—” I sigh. “I don’t want to want you, Nora. We don’t even really know each other. And yet... you keep showing up in my head.”

She crosses her arms. “So me being here is the issue?”

“No. That’s not what I meant,” I say quickly. When she looks away, I lower my voice. “This isn’t something I’m used to, Nora. Wanting someone like this. Acting on it. I’ve spent years keeping people at a distance for a reason.”

She studies me for a long second before stepping closer. Then, gently, she takes my hand. “So… do all those reasons you’ve built outweigh what you feel?”

I don’t answer right away. When I finally speak, my voice is rough.

“My reasons make sense in my head. They’ve always kept things simple.

.. safe. But none of them seem to matter when I’m with you.

I don’t want to feel this way and being with me in any way .

.. you don’t want that either, trust me” I say even though I move with her to her front door, refusing to let her go.

“I’m old enough to know what I want, Calder. I’m twenty-four,” she says, her eyes locked on mine. “I don’t know what’s got you so scared or convinced you don’t deserve something good—but I want you.”

I open my mouth to argue, to throw up another wall, but she takes a step back and gently tugs my hand, guiding me over the threshold. Then she reaches up and presses two fingers to my lips, stopping whatever excuse I was about to make.

“I’m not asking you to be my boyfriend,” she says softly, “or to stay forever, or even to apologize for running after our kiss. I’m just asking you to keep being honest with me... maybe even a little more than before. Because I want you—however you’re able to give yourself to me.”

God, she’s making it even harder to keep pretending I don’t want her. Making me feel like an idiot for trying to fight it.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” I say in a raw voice I hardly recognize. Ignoring what I feel is a losing battle. Time to wave the white flag.