It was a Friday in late October when the line finally broke.
Noah had gone down early, worn out from a boxing session that had ended with him actually laughing, and Damian and I ended up on the couch with a film neither of us was watching, the fire burning low, a bottle of red wine between us that I’d poured more out of nervous habit than thirst.
“You’re doing it again,” he said quietly, partway through the film. “Staring.”
“I’m not.”
“Sarah.” My name in his mouth had a weight to it, a gravity that pulled the whole room toward him. “I’ve been very patient.”
“Patient about what?”
He turned to face me properly then, and the firelight caught his eyes, turned that pale blue to something molten. “About not doing this,” he said, and reached up, slowly, giving me every chance to pull away, and brushed a loose strand of dark red hair off my cheek.
I did not pull away.
“This is a terrible idea,” I whispered.
“Probably.” His thumb traced the line of my jaw. “Tell me to stop and I will.”
I did not tell him to stop.
When he kissed me, it was nothing like I expected from a boy his age, no clumsy eagerness, but a slow, deliberate patience, as though he had all the time in the world and intended to spend every second of it right there, learning the shape of my mouth. His hand slid into my hair. Mine found the front of his hoodie, fisting the fabric like I needed something to hold onto in a world that had just tilted sideways.
When we finally broke apart, both of us breathing harder than a kiss should account for, he rested his forehead against mine.
“I’ve wanted to do that since the day I caught that ball,” he admitted.
“That’s a long time to wait.”
“I’m good at waiting.” A small, private smile. “You have no idea how good.”
I laughed, and it came out shaky, disbelieving, and terrified. But underneath the terror was something I hadn’t let myself feel in six years: the unmistakable, undeniable pull of wanting to be chosen.