21
I didn’t understand what had just happened—I was flushed, breathless, and frozen in place, staring at Emma like she held the secret to something I didn’t know I needed until a few days ago. And when she said my name, softly, with that voice I’d missed so much, something in me completely unraveled.
God, I wanted to kiss her again. Right there. All over. Like that one kiss had only awakened an appetite, not satisfied it.
My heart was thundering in my chest, each beat louder than the last.
My knees were trembling, barely holding me up.
I wanted to speak, to say something—anything—but Emma dropped her gaze to the floor before I could.
She didn’t look at me. Not once. Just stared at her toes like they could explain what she was feeling.
Was she embarrassed? By the kiss? Or by the fact that she admitted—openly, softly, sweetly—that she liked it?
I moved slowly, cautiously, and sat down on the coffee table again, facing her. My fingers reached out and gently lifted her chin. She let me, which meant everything.
I didn’t say anything at first. I didn’t want to humiliate her by calling out what was obvious to both of us.
That she’d wanted it too. That she’d responded to me like she’d been waiting. Her hands, her breath, that moan—I could still feel the sound of it vibrating through me.
I just stared at her.
Her face was flushed. Her eyes full of questions she probably didn’t know how to ask.
Her lips—God, those lips—were parted slightly like they still remembered the taste of me.
“Emma,” I whispered, inching closer. I leaned in, ready to kiss her again, when she suddenly stood up so fast it startled me.
“Jen, I can’t,” she blurted, her voice cracking. “This is wrong. I’m sorry, but I can’t.”
And just like that, her back was to me, her shoulders rising with a sharp breath.
Was she crying?
Panic hit me like cold water.
“Oh my God. Emma…” I stood too, moving toward her slowly, like I was approaching something fragile. “Emma, are you crying?”
I reached out, gently trying to guide her to face me. She turned, and when I saw her bloodshot eyes, it was like someone reached into my chest and twisted something vital.
“Oh, Emma…” My arms wrapped around her before I could stop myself. I just held her—tight, desperate. Like maybe if I held her long enough, I could absorb some of her pain. Even if I was the one who caused it.
She didn’t hug me back. Not at first. But she didn’t pull away either. We stayed like that for minutes—two, maybe more—until her breathing softened.
I finally pulled back, just enough to wipe her tears with my fingers.
“Jen, I can’t,” she said again, voice barely audible.
“Shhh…” I gently pressed my finger against her lips, and instantly regretted it. The sensation of her mouth under my fingertip sent chills racing down my spine. I couldn’t think straight with her this close.
She stared at me, eyes wide. Not backing away. Just waiting.
I gave her the softest smile I could, trying to offer her warmth instead of confusion. To my surprise, she reached up and touched my cheek. Her palm was warm, calming. I leaned into it, pressing my face to her hand like I needed it to breathe.
“Your hands are soft,” she murmured.
That simple sentence lit a tiny fire in my chest.
I smiled. “So are yours.”
We didn’t speak for a while. Just stood there, her hand in mine. And in that silence, I realized something. She didn’t understand what was happening between us. Not fully. Maybe she was scared. Maybe it felt like too much, too soon. She’d never been with a girl before, and neither had I—not like this. But I had loved one. Once. Briefly. Painfully. And what I was starting to feel for Emma made that look small in comparison.
I looked down at our joined hands and let my thumb brush her knuckles.
If only.
That thought anchored itself in my mind. If only this wasn’t so complicated. If only I didn’t feel like every move I made could push her away. If only I could hold her hand forever.
I sighed and held onto her a moment longer.
“Jen?”
Her voice snapped me out of my thoughts.
“Hmmm?”
“I’m actually… a bit tired.”
Right. Of course. I looked down and realized I’d been holding her hand for longer than I should have. Her cheeks had a pink hue now. She was blushing. And when I looked up again, she was giggling—softly.
It made me want to wrap her in my arms all over again.
“I’m sorry,” I said, releasing her hand slowly. The second I let go, I felt that emptiness creep back in. The one I always feel when I walk away from her.
“I should go.”
She nodded but didn’t say anything, so I started for the door, every step heavier than the last.
Just as I reached for the handle, her voice rang out.
“I’ll see you tomorrow?”
I turned. My heart stuttered in my chest.
She still wanted to see me.
“Of course, Emma,” I said.
And then I left—still unsure of where we stood, but holding onto those four words like they were the promise of something more.
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