The city was warmer by the time it happened.

Not summer warm, but that late-spring hum that made windows stay cracked open all night and filled the air with the smell of tulips and hot pavement and something else—possibility.

It had been two weeks since the almost.

Since she curled into him and he let her stay there.

Since they'd walked quieter, slower, eyes lingering longer but hands never quite touching.

Clare couldn't stop thinking about it.

About how gentle he was with her. About how he waited.

About how she still hadn't stopped wanting him.


It was late—again—when it happened.

They were walking home from a film festival screening Eli had invited her to. Some low-budget feature with too much symbolism and a surprisingly good soundtrack. Clare had leaned over during the third act and whispered, "I think the fish represents capitalism."

He'd laughed too loud and made the guy in front of them shush him. She'd elbowed him playfully, and when their eyes met in the dark, there was a flicker of something that hadn't left since.

Now, on the walk back, her fingers brushed his.

This time, she didn't pull away.

Eli noticed.

"You sure?" he asked, so quiet she almost didn't hear it.

Clare stopped walking.

They were just outside her apartment—one of those brownstones with peeling paint and the world's narrowest staircase. A street light flickered above them. Somewhere nearby, someone was playing a jazz record with too much bass.

She looked at him for a long moment. Eyes soft. Steady.

"I don't want to wait anymore," she said.

And then she kissed him.


It wasn't desperate.

It wasn't reckless.

It was slow, and full, and real. Like coming back to something that had waited patiently for them to be ready.

His hands cupped her jaw like she might disappear. Hers found the edge of his jacket and didn't let go.

When they finally pulled apart, they were both breathing like they'd just gone for a run.

Eli rested his forehead against hers. "That felt like a yes."

Clare nodded. "It was."

He smiled. "You're wearing your own hoodie again, by the way."

She laughed. "Guess I should leave it here next time."

Eli arched a brow. "Next time?"

She grinned. "Don't push it."


She didn't go upstairs that night.

Instead, she stayed with him.

They talked until 2 a.m., curled up on his tiny couch with a blanket that didn't quite cover them both. He read her a monologue from his script. She made fun of one line that sounded too cliche. He dared her to write something better.

So she did.

And before they fell asleep, legs tangled and limbs too warm, Clare softly whispered something into the space between them.

"I think I still love you."

Eli didn't open his eyes when he said it back.

"I never stopped."