His thumb stroked the back of my hand, a simple, tender gesture that unraveled me completely.
He wasn’t just the ruthless groom. He was the boy who’d once traced constellations on my back and whispered his dreams into my hair.
He stood up, pulling me gently by the hand. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. ”
He paid the bill in a blur, and a moment later they were standing on the sidewalk outside, the city’s cool night air a shock to my heated skin.
The noise of the traffic seemed distant, muted.
“I shouldn’t have done this,” I said, pulling my hand from his. “This was a mistake. ”
“No,” he said, his voice impossibly gentle. He stepped closer, cupping my face in his hands. His palms were warm against my cheeks. “The mistake was letting you go in the first place. ”
And then he leaned in and kissed me.
It wasn’t a kiss of ravenous hunger or desperate passion. It wasn’t the bruising, claiming kiss Rhys had given me, a kiss that tasted of whiskey and secrets and exhilarating danger.
Marcus’s kiss was sweet.
It was tender. It was a question and an apology and a promise all at once.
The press of his lips was soft, searching, and so achingly familiar it felt like a memory coming to life. It was every Sunday morning, every stolen moment, every quiet promise we had ever shared. It was the solid, comforting weight of him, the scent of his cologne, the sheer, undeniable *rightness* of how they fit together.
It felt like coming home.
When he pulled back, my eyes fluttered open.
He rested his forehead against hers, his breath warm. “Just think about it, Ava. That’s all I ask. ”
He didn’t wait for a reply. He gave me one last, lingering look, then turned and walked away, leaving me standing on the sidewalk, my heart a frantic, bewildered drum against my ribs.
I touched my lips, the ghost of his kiss still tingling there. It was a feeling of safety, of redemption, of a love that was as comfortable and known as my own skin.
And it terrified me.
Because as I stood there, awash in the warm, steady glow of Marcus’s love, another memory surged forward, unbidden and sharp. The feeling of Rhys’s rough hands in my hair, the feral spark in his eyes, the exhilarating, terrifying freefall of his kiss.
Rhys was a wildfire, a dangerous, unpredictable force that threatened to consume me. Marcus was the hearth, offering warmth and safety and a place I once belonged.
Someone had just offered me a harbor.
But God help me, a part of me, a reckless, foolish part, still wanted to dance in the rain.