Lily
It was raining again.
Not the kind of stormy, cinematic downpour that made you think of dramatic kisses and declarations in the middle of a street. This rain was soft—more mist than anything—and it clung to the windows in tiny beads, blurring the city outside into watercolor.
I stood in Daniel's kitchen, barefoot and quiet, staring at the tea I had no intention of drinking.
We hadn't spoken much since last night.
Not because anything had gone wrong.
Quite the opposite, actually.
He'd walked me home after work, one hand casually resting at the small of my back like it belonged there. Like he belonged there. And then, on my doorstep, he'd looked at me with that signature quiet intensity, and I'd wanted to kiss him more than I'd wanted anything in a long, long time. But I didn't. Not then. I just looked back at him, heart wide open, and said, "I think I'm ready."
He hadn't kissed me either.
He'd just smiled—gentle, warm, impossibly fond—and whispered, "Okay."
That was it.
