Page 85 of Mending Hearts
“It doesn’t feel reckless either,” I say quietly.
That lands between us. Because that’s the difference.
Slow was supposed to mean careful. Measured. Not ripping open old wounds before we knew if they’d scarred right. But this? This doesn’t feel like we tripped. It feels like gravity.
“You okay with that?” he asks, his tone steady, careful.
And I realize something—he’s not leading this. He’s not pulling us forward the way he used to. He’s waiting.
For me.
I was the one who showed up. The one who kissed him first. The one who knocked on his door and decided I wasn’t done.
I don’t get to hesitate now.
“I don’t want to sprint,” I say, but there’s less fear in it this time. More intention. “Last time, we lit the match and hoped for the best.”
His jaw flexes slightly. Not defensive, just listening. “That wasn’t all me,” he says quietly.
“No,” I agree. “But this time… I’m the one pushing.”
The admission sits heavy and honest between us.
I meet his eyes. “I came after you, Rafe. I’m not pretending this is accidental.”
Vulnerability shifts in his expression at that.
“I need this to be more than chemistry,” I continue. “And I’m not chasing you just to crash again.”
He steps closer, but he doesn’t take over. Doesn’t steer. He lets me finish.
“So, slow doesn’t mean we don’t touch,” I say. “It means we don’t use this to skip the hard parts. We actually date. We talk. We don’t jump to forever just because it feels intense.”
His mouth curves faintly at that. “You mean no surprise Vegas weddings?”
A quiet huff of laughter leaves me. “Definitely no surprise Vegas weddings.”
That was him, once. Big gestures. All in. No brakes. This time, it’s me holding the wheel.
“So, what does slow look like to you?” he asks.
Notwhat do you want.
What does slow look like to you.
“Breakfast,” I say. “You at practice. Me showing up to your set without pretending we’re just old friends. Not hiding. But not announcing anything either.”
His thumb brushes my hip again. “And this?”
“This,” I say, steady, “is me choosing you again. On purpose. Not because it’s dramatic. Not because it’s loud. Because I want to.”
He goes very still at that. For a long moment, he just looks at me like he’s trying to decide if I’m real. “You’re sure?” he asks quietly.
Eight years ago, he was the one asking me to jump.
Now it’s my turn.
“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” I say.
