Page 57 of When the Smoke Clears

We’re so close, his breath skims my lips. The air between us hisses with anticipation. Every cell in my body screams yes, but a sliver of fear cuts through: if we cross this line, we can’t pretend it’s just history anymore.

Maybe that’s exactly what I want.

My eyes flutter shut as I close the small distance, my lips brushing his in the faintest, tentative kiss. It’s a quiet plea for forgiveness, for another chance, for anything.

The warmth of his mouth meets mine, and a wave of feeling surges up, sharp and overwhelming. Tears prick behind my eyes. This is every late-night fantasy, every what-if, every ache I’ve been outrunning for a decade.

A broken, desperate sound leaks out of me before I can swallow it.

And still, neither of us deepens the kiss. We hover there, lips grazing lips, breath mingling, like we’re relearning each other cell by cell. It’s soft and unbearably careful.

It’s not enough.

It’s everything.

For ten years, I’ve choreographed this moment in my head. Dramatic declarations, slammed doors, frantic hands. Instead, it’s this painfully gentle press of mouths and the terrifying realization that my heart never got the memo that we were over.

Several seconds pass before Luke pulls back, just an inch. “We should get back.”

His voice is rough, like the words scraped on the way out.

I bow my head, my lips still tingling, and manage a nod.

The drive home is quiet except for the crunch of gravel and the low hum of the engine. The cabin windows glow faintly in the distance, like a safe house in some other life.

The kiss sits between us, loud as a siren neither of us will acknowledge.

Luke’s grip on the wheel is white-knuckled. His jaw ticks. Every line of his body says distance, but his eyes, when I catch them in the reflection of the windshield, say anything but.

He looks like a man trying very hard to keep both hands on the steering wheel and off me.

For once, the power doesn’t feel one-sided.

When we pull into the drive, Gabe is pacing on the front steps, phone in hand. He acknowledges us immediately. Something in his eyes sharpens, but his tone stays casual.

“Hey,” he says with a nod as we climb out. “You two had a conversation yet?”

“Yeah,” Luke replies. His voice is low but steadier now. “I owe you an apology, Gabe.”

Gabe shrugs, mouth tipping up. “It’s all good, brother. I’ve got something for you.”

We follow him inside. The smell hits me first—creamy alfredo, garlic, and warm bread. Comfort food. My empty stomach growls; my nerves are too tight to care.

Gabe lifts his phone. A string of numbers glows on the screen.

Luke leans in. “What am I looking at?”

Gabe turns to me, his expression shifting from easy to intent. “I’ve been trying to trace the number that sent you the text,” he says.

Hope flares in my chest so fast it hurts. “Did you find the person?”

“No.” He hesitates. “But this is…interesting.”

Luke’s attention locks in. “What?”

“Whoever texted you used a burner and end-to-end encryption,” Gabe says.

Luke’s eyes narrow. “In English?”