He brings the wine.
Of course he does.
He knows your mother's favorite.
He compliments her new candles.
He even offers to help set the table.
You watch from the kitchen, leaning against the counter, arms crossed.
He looks like a liar.
Because no one that polite should know what you sound like when you moan.
But he does.
And he's barely looking at you.
Which only makes it worse.
⸻
Dinner is cozy.
Warm. Loud.
Your mother and his laughing about high school,
trips to the lake,
how you two were always
"so funny around each other."
You stab a piece of roasted potato.
He finally meets your eyes.
And in that moment, you know:
He remembers everything.
And he's barely holding it together.
⸻
Under the table, his knee brushes yours.
Once.
Then again.
Your breath hitches.
You move your leg—he follows.
His fingers find your wrist beneath the tablecloth.
Just one gentle touch.
Just enough to say I'm still here.
Still yours.
You snatch your hand away too fast.
Your mother notices your flinch.
"Everything okay?"
"Fine,"
you lie.
"Just—hot."
HE smiles
like he's not dying inside.
But he doesn't pull away this time.
He leans in, voice low,
just for you:
"You gonna tell them?"
"Or should I?"
You nearly choke on your wine.
"Don't,"
you hiss.
"Why?"
he murmurs.
" Because it wasn't real?"
"Or because it was?"
The words hang there.
And you know if he says one more thing—
just one—
You're going to kiss him
at the dinner table.
⸻
After dessert, he stands to help clear plates.
Your mother beams.
"Such a good man.
Some girl's going to be lucky."
You catch the flicker in his eyes.
"Yeah,"
he says, holding your gaze.
"If she'd just let herself have me."
The ride home is silent.
Your mother talks the whole way.
You nod.
Smile, Pretend.
But you don't hear a word.
All you hear is his voice,
still echoing like a bruise beneath your ribs:
"If she'd just let herself have me."
You tell your mom goodnight.
The door clicks shut behind her.
And you stand there.
Still. Breath caught.
Skin prickling like he's still touching you.
Because he is.
Not physically.
Not anymore.
But he's everywhere now.
And you hate him for it.
⸻
You don't text.
Don't knock.
You just show up.
This time, it's his place..
You don't even have to knock.
The door opens before you reach it.
And there he is.
Hair a little messy.
T-shirt half-wrinkled.
Eyes soft—like he's already forgiven you for hurting him.
"You didn't answer,"
he says.
"You didn't wait,"
you shoot back.
"I've been waiting for ten years."
Silence.
Then you whisper:
"I don't know how to do this."
He steps forward.
"Then let me show you."
⸻
The kiss is nothing like the last one.
This one is slow.
Not because he's unsure—
but because he's already made up his mind.
He's yours now.
No games. No pretending. No "just one night."
His hands don't grab—
they cradle.
His mouth doesn't demand—
it learns.
And when he breaks just enough to breathe?
"You scare the hell out of me," he murmurs against your lips.
"But I've never wanted anything more."
You rest your forehead to his.
"Then don't stop."
He doesn't.
Not this time.
Not ever.