Page 59 of Every Shattered Note
He tilts his head, just enough.“Never ever what?”
I shake my head, words caught in my chest.“No one’s ever said anything like that to me.Not like this, as if you mean it.”
“I mean every fucking word, Aly.”
He doesn’t move at first.Just watches me, like he’s tracing every ounce of hesitation, every breath I can’t seem to release.The way my lips part, then press closed again, like I’ve forgotten how to speak—or maybe I’m too afraid of what might come out.
And then, he shifts forward.
Just a few inches.His forehead dips toward mine until we’re so close I can taste the breath between us.
“If you don’t want this,” he murmurs, his voice almost breaking on the words, “tell me to stop.”
I want it.I want it more than I’ve let myself want anything in years.Probably more than I need my next breath.
But all I can do is whisper, “Dex, please.”
His mouth brushes mine.Barely there.Soft.Testing.Like he’s offering a way out I already know I won’t take.
I don’t move.I don’t stop him.
So, he kisses me.
His mouth finds mine like he’s memorizing the shape of a moment we’ll never get back.Soft.Slow.Like the first page of a love letter.Like something he wants to earn—not own.His lips move over mine with a patience that undoes me.There’s no rush, no force—just a slow, unspoken reverence that seeps into my skin.It aches, but not in a way that hurts.It lingers.Leaves something behind without ever asking for more.
He kisses me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he moves too fast.Like he knows, this moment could fall apart if we breathe wrong.Like it’s too precious to fumble.
It’s not a kiss that tries to persuade me.
It’s a kiss that sees me.
And in it, there’s everything I never let myself want—longing, fear, the fragile thread of hope I’ve been burying for years.It rises, quiet and fierce, and slips between us like it always belonged here.
I press into him, finally giving in to all of it—the ache, the doubt, the grief of waiting for something like this and pretending I didn’t need it.
His arms wrap around me, pulling me closer.Not possessive.Not demanding.Just there—present in the way no one else ever has been.And somewhere in that closeness, the slow burn starts to build.
Not rushed.
But undeniable.
ChapterTwenty-Five
Dexter
If there’s such a thing as a perfect kiss—a perfect moment suspended between who we were and who we’re about to become—this would be it.
But it’s not just the kiss.It’s also the way her breath hitches when I lean in.It’s the way her fingers curl into mine.Like maybe, just maybe, she’s holding on too.
What I feel isn’t lust.It’s not even want.
It’s need.
It’s the ache to know her fully.To hear the stories she never tells out loud.To memorize her laugh, her silences, the way her eyes change when she’s fighting herself.
It’s a soul-deep pull to stay when everyone else leaves.
And I would.
