Chapter 10: The Library Confrontation
Paris spent the next four days pretending the library's second-floor study room didn't exist. She told herself it was because she had actual work to do—a critical essay on Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway due Friday, a mountain of Victorian poetry to annotate, a thesis proposal that was slowly metastasizing into something unmanageable. She told herself a lot of things, most of them lies.
The truth was simpler and uglier: she couldn't stop thinking about the way his hands had felt on her hips. The way he'd groaned her name against her throat. The way he'd left that note on her desk, the words still burning in her mind like a brand.
I'll be waiting for you when you're ready.
She'd crumpled it and thrown it in the trash. Then she'd fished it out, smoothed the creases, and hidden it in the pages of her annotated Swann's Way where she wouldn't have to look at it but couldn't quite bring herself to destroy it.
Pathetic, she thought now, slamming her laptop shut with more force than necessary. The sound echoed through her dorm room, startling the pile of books stacked precariously on her nightstand. She was being pathetic, hiding in her room like a coward, avoiding a man she'd explicitly told she only wanted for sex.
Except that wasn't entirely true either, was it?
She'd told him one time. That's all this is. But it had been three times that night—three times she'd let him inside her body, each time telling herself it would be the last. And when she'd woken up to an empty bed and that note, the relief she'd expected to feel hadn't come. Instead, there was something hollow, something that ached in a way she refused to name.
"Stop it," she muttered, pressing her palms against her eyes until stars bloomed in the darkness. "Just stop."
She needed to work. She needed to focus. She needed to stop thinking about the way his cock had felt sliding inside her, thick and hard and perfect, filling her so completely she'd forgotten her own name.
A knock at her door made her jump.
"Yo, Paris!" Maya's voice filtered through the wood, bright and insistent. "You've been holed up in here for days. We're going to get coffee. You're coming."
"I'm working—"
"You've been 'working' since Monday." Maya pushed the door open without waiting for an invitation, her locs swinging as she strode in and flopped onto the bed. "It's Wednesday, babe. Even geniuses need a break."
Paris sighed, running a hand through her unwashed hair. "I don't have time—"
"You're also not sleeping." Maya's voice softened, her sharp eyes missing nothing. "I can tell. You've got that look."
"What look?"
"The 'I made a terrible decision and now I'm spiraling' look." Maya raised an eyebrow. "Spill."
"There's nothing to spill." Paris grabbed her coffee mug—cold, empty, stained with yesterday's dregs—and brought it to the sink. "I'm just stressed about finals."
"Bullshit." Maya sat up, crossing her legs. "You've been checking your phone every five minutes for two days. Who are you waiting to hear from?"
Paris's stomach flipped. She hadn't realized she'd been that obvious. "No one."
"Uh-huh." Maya's knowing smile made her want to crawl under the bed. "Is it that quarterback? The one who was all over you at that party a while back? Justin something?"
"J-Smooth," Paris corrected before she could stop herself, and immediately wanted to bite her tongue.
Maya's eyebrows shot up. "J-Smooth? You're hooking up with a guy who calls himself J-Smooth?"
"I'm not hooking up with him." Paris busied herself with the coffeemaker, desperate for something to do with her hands. "It was a one-time thing. He's not... it's not..."
"Girl." Maya was on her feet, crossing the room to stand in front of her. "Your face is bright red and you can barely string a sentence together. That's not a one-time thing. That's a whole-ass situation."
"It's not a situation." Paris's voice came out smaller than she intended. "It's just... complicated."
"Complicated how?"
Paris opened her mouth, ready to launch into the full explanation—the history, the hurt, the terms she'd set, the note she'd hidden. But the words stuck in her throat, too tangled to unravel.
"I can't," she finally said. "I can't talk about it."
Maya studied her for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Alright. I won't push. But you need to eat something that isn't ramen, and you need to get out of this room." She grabbed Paris's jacket from the hook by the door and tossed it at her. "Coffee. Now. You can brood in public."
Paris hesitated, the weight of her avoidance pressing down on her. But Maya was right—she couldn't hide forever. And it wasn't like she was going to run into Justin, anyway. He was probably back to his usual rotation of willing women, already forgetting the night they'd spent tangled together.
The thought made her stomach clench with something that felt dangerously like jealousy.
She shrugged on her jacket. "Fine. But I'm not drinking anything with pumpkin flavoring."
"Deal. Now move your ass before I have to drag you."
---
The coffee shop on campus was crowded, the line snaking past the pastry case and out the door. Paris let Maya pull her into the queue, her eyes scanning the room out of habit.
He wasn't there.
She didn't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed.
"Two oat milk lattes," Maya ordered when they reached the counter, not even bothering to ask what Paris wanted. "And two of those chocolate croissants."
"You're going to bankrupt yourself feeding me."
"Someone has to. You clearly aren't eating." Maya paid and steered them toward a table by the window, the afternoon sun streaming in and warming the worn wooden surface. "Now. Talk."
Paris slumped into her chair, stirring her latte even though she hadn't added anything to it. "There's nothing to talk about. We hooked up. It was good. But we're not... we're not together."
"Did you want to be?"
The question hit her like a slap. "I don't know."
Maya's expression softened. "That's honest, at least. What's holding you back?"
"Trust." Paris wrapped her hands around the warm cup, letting the heat seep into her palms. "He hurt me before. Made me believe we could be something real, then ran back to his old flame the second things got complicated. I can't let him do that again."
"So you're protecting yourself."
"Is that so wrong?"
"No." Maya took a sip of her latte, thoughtful. "But it's also worth asking yourself—is protecting yourself the same as living? Because it seems to me like you're so busy building walls that you're forgetting to open the door."
Paris opened her mouth to argue, but the words died in her throat.
Across the room, through the crowded coffee shop, Justin Calloway walked through the door.
He was with a group of his fraternity brothers, all broad shoulders and easy laughter, but Paris only saw him. He was wearing that same gray sweatshirt he'd worn the first night they'd met, the one with the frayed collar and the faded Kappa Sigma crest. His hair was tousled, his smile easy as he clapped one of his brothers on the back.
Then he turned, and their eyes met.
The world seemed to narrow to a single point of contact. The noise of the coffee shop faded to a dull hum, the other bodies blurring into meaningless shapes. He was looking at her with an intensity that made her breath catch, his smile fading into something more serious, more focused.
Maya followed her gaze and let out a low whistle. "That him?"
"Yes." The word came out rough, scraped from a dry throat.
"Girl, he hasn't stopped staring at you since he walked in. He's not even pretending to pay attention to his friends."
Paris tore her gaze away, staring into her latte like it held the secrets of the universe. "It doesn't matter."
"Bullshit—"
"Excuse me." A deep voice cut through their conversation, and Paris looked up to find Justin standing beside their table. He was close enough that she could smell him—that clean, masculine scent of soap and something uniquely him that she'd been trying to forget for days. "I need to borrow her for a minute."
Maya raised an eyebrow, looking between them. "And if she doesn't want to be borrowed?"
"Then I'll leave." His eyes never left Paris's face. "But I think she might want to hear what I have to say."
Paris's heart hammered against her ribs. This was a mistake. Every instinct screamed at her to stay seated, to send him away, to protect the fragile equilibrium she'd built.
But her body was already rising, already moving toward him.
"I'll be right back," she murmured to Maya, who was watching with barely concealed glee.
She followed him out of the coffee shop, into the cool afternoon air. He led her away from the main paths, toward a quiet corner of campus shaded by ancient oaks. When they reached a bench hidden from view, he turned to face her.
"You've been avoiding me."
"I've been busy." She crossed her arms, a defensive gesture she couldn't quite suppress. "Some of us have actual work to do."
"You've been busy," he repeated, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice. "It's been four days, Paris. You didn't answer my texts."
"What texts?"
"The ones I sent every morning, asking if I could see you." He ran a hand through his hair, agitation clear in the gesture. "I know you got them. Your phone says read receipts."
Shit. She'd forgotten about read receipts.
"I didn't know what to say," she admitted, the confession slipping out before she could stop it. "I thought if I saw you, I'd..."
"You'd what?"
"I'd make another mistake."
The words hung between them, heavy with meaning. Justin's jaw tightened, and she could see the hurt flickering behind his eyes before he masked it.
"Is that what I am, then? A mistake?"
"You know what you are." Her voice cracked. "That's the problem."
He stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. "Tell me what I am. Tell me what you're so afraid of."
"I'm not afraid of anything." The lie tasted bitter on her tongue.
"You're terrified." He reached out, cupping her face with a gentleness that made her chest ache. "You're terrified of feeling something real, so you push me away. You set terms that keep me at arm's length because you're too scared to let yourself want what I want."
"And what do you want?" The question came out as a whisper.
"You." His thumb traced her cheekbone with devastating tenderness. "I want you, Paris. Not just in your bed—though God knows I want that too. I want to wake up next to you. I want to make you breakfast and read your terrible poetry and argue about books until two in the morning. I want all of it."
"Don't." She pulled away, her back hitting the trunk of the oak tree behind her. "Don't say things you don't mean."
"I mean every word."
"You said that before." The bitterness crept into her voice, unbidden. "You told me you loved me, and then you left me for Kate the moment things got difficult. Why should I believe you now?"
He flinched like she'd struck him. "I made a mistake. A terrible, stupid mistake. I was scared, Paris. I'd never felt anything like what I felt for you, and I didn't know how to handle it. So I ran. I ran back to something familiar because it was easier than facing the truth."
"And what's the truth?" Her voice was barely audible, even to her own ears.
"The truth is that I'm in love with you." He stepped closer, his hands finding her waist. "The truth is that I've been in love with you since the moment you spilled that drink on me and called me a pretty boy with a peanut-sized brain. The truth is that I've never stopped thinking about you, and I don't think I ever will."
She stared at him, her heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat. Every logical instinct screamed at her to run, to protect herself, to maintain the careful distance she'd built.
But her body betrayed her.
She surged forward, capturing his mouth with hers in a kiss that was all fire and desperation. He responded instantly, his arms wrapping around her as he pulled her closer, deepening the kiss until she was gasping for air.
"Not here," she breathed against his lips. "Someone might see."
"Library?" A hopeful desperation crept into his voice.
"I know a place."
---
She led him through the back entrance of the library, past the bustling main floor and up a narrow staircase that smelled of dust and old paper. The second-floor study room was her secret sanctuary, a place she'd discovered during her first semester when she needed to escape the chaos of dorm life.
The room was small, dominated by a massive oak desk that had seen better centuries. The windows were grimy, filtering the afternoon light into golden streaks that danced across the worn floorboards. A single leather chair sat in the corner, faded and cracked with age.
She locked the door behind them.
The click of the lock seemed to echo through the silent room. Justin turned to face her, his dark eyes burning with a hunger that made her breath catch.
"This your secret hideout?" He stepped closer, his voice low and rough.
"My sanctuary." She backed toward the desk, her heart racing. "No one knows about it."
"Except me."
"Except you." She reached the edge of the desk, her hands gripping the worn wood. "I've never brought anyone here."
He closed the distance between them, his body pressing against hers as his mouth found her neck. "I'm honored."
"Don't be." She gasped as his teeth grazed her pulse point. "I'm probably going to regret this."
"I don't care." His hands found the hem of her shirt, slipping beneath to trace the warm skin of her stomach. "I've been thinking about this all week. Every time I close my eyes, I see you. I hear you moaning my name. I feel you clenching around my cock."
"Fuck." The word escaped on a moan as his fingers found her breasts, teasing her nipples through the thin fabric of her bra. "You're not making this easy."
"Good." He pulled her shirt over her head, tossing it aside. "I don't want easy. I want you."
She reached for his belt, fumbling with the buckle as his mouth claimed hers again. He helped her, his hands covering hers as they worked the leather free. His jeans dropped to the floor, and she palmed his erection through his boxers, feeling the heat of him through the thin cotton.
"Condom?" She gasped as he unclasped her bra, letting it fall.
"Pocket." He fumbled in his jeans, producing a foil packet. "Always prepared."
She took it from him, tearing it open with her teeth as she sank to her knees in front of him. His breath caught as she took him in her hand, stroking him slowly as she rolled the condom into place.
"Christ," he groaned. "Your mouth on me is going to kill me."
She looked up at him, a wicked glint in her amber eyes, before she leaned forward and took him in her mouth. He was thick and heavy on her tongue, and she savored the weight of him as she bobbed her head, taking him deeper with each pass until she felt him hit the back of her throat.
"Fuck, Paris." His hands tangled in her hair, gripping tight as he thrust into her mouth with shallow, desperate movements. "That's it. Take me all the way."
She moaned around him, the vibration making him shudder. She worked him with her hand and mouth in tandem, her other hand cupping his balls as she drove him closer to the edge.
"I'm close," he warned, his voice strained. "If you keep doing that, I'm going to come."
She pulled off with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting her lips to his cock. "Not yet. I want you inside me first."
He pulled her to her feet, claiming her mouth in a bruising kiss as he turned her around and bent her over the desk. The old wood creaked beneath her weight as he positioned himself behind her, his hands gripping her hips.
"You ready for me?" He teased his cock through her slick folds, making her moan.
"Just fuck me," she demanded, pushing back against him. "I need you inside me. Now."
He drove into her in a single, brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt. She cried out, the sound swallowed as his hand clamped over her mouth.
"Shh," he whispered against her ear as he began to move. "You gotta be quiet, baby. We don't want anyone to hear how filthy you are."
She whimpered against his palm as he thrust into her at a punishing pace, his hips slapping against her ass with each impact. The desk banged against the wall, the rhythm of their coupling echoing through the quiet room.
"That's it," he growled, his free hand finding her clit. "Take my cock. Take every inch of it. You feel how deep I am? How good I fill you up?"
She nodded frantically, her cries muffled by his hand. The pleasure was building, coiling tight in her belly as his thumb circled her clit with ruthless precision.
"I'm gonna make you come," he promised, his voice dark and filthy. "Gonna make you squirt all over this desk, all over my cock. You're going to be so fucking wet for me."
She was already soaking, her arousal coating his cock as he drove into her slick heat. The pressure was unbearable, the pleasure so intense she could barely think.
"Come for me, Paris." His hand left her mouth, his fingers finding her lips and pushing inside. "Let me feel you."
She bit down on his fingers as her orgasm crashed over her, her body convulsing as she gushed around his cock, the liquid heat spilling down her thighs and pooling on the floor beneath them.
"Fuck, yes." He fucked her through it, his pace never faltering as she continued to squirt around him. "That's my girl. So fucking beautiful when you come."
She was trembling, oversensitive, every nerve ending on fire. But before she could catch her breath, he pulled out and flipped her to face him, lifting her onto the desk.
"I'm not done with you yet."
He drove back into her, her legs wrapping around his waist as he fucked her against the desk, his mouth claiming hers to swallow her screams. She could feel herself building toward another peak, her body rising to meet each thrust.
"That's it," he grunted against her lips. "Give me one more. I know you've got another one in you."
She shattered again, her inner walls clenching around him as she came with a scream he swallowed. The sensation pushed him over the edge, his hips stuttering as he spilled inside her with a guttural groan.
They collapsed together, tangled in a heap on the dusty floor of her sanctuary. The air was thick with the scent of sex and sweat, their breath ragged as they tried to recover.
Paris lay against him, her head resting on his chest, listening to the steady thud of his heart. She should get up. She should send him away, rebuild her walls, protect herself from the inevitable pain.
But she couldn't move.
"I meant what I said, you know," he murmured, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on her bare back. "Everything I said earlier."
"I know." Her voice was small, fragile. "That's what scares me."
"Don't be scared." He pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I'm not going anywhere."
She didn't answer. She couldn't.
Because despite everything, despite the walls she'd built and the terms she'd set, she was starting to believe him.
And that terrified her more than anything.
The weeks that followed settled into a rhythm Paris told herself she could manage. She would text him when the ache became unbearable—always late at night, always with a simple "You up?"—and he would come to her dorm or she would go to his apartment, and they would fuck until they were both raw and spent. Then he would leave, or she would, and the cycle would begin again.
It was working. She was in control. She had set the terms and he had accepted them, and as long as she kept her heart locked away in that dusty study room where they'd first come undone, she could pretend she wasn't slowly falling apart.
He never pushed. He never asked for more. He showed up when she called and left when she told him to, and she hated how grateful she was for that small mercy. She hated how her chest tightened every time his name lit up her phone. She hated how she'd started looking for him in crowded rooms, how her eyes would find him across the quad and her stomach would flip before she forced herself to look away.
It's just sex, she reminded herself constantly. Just Physical. Just a warm body that knows how to make you come.
But the lie grew thinner with each passing night, stretched taut by the way he looked at her when she let him stay a little longer, the way his fingers would trace patterns on her skin like he was memorizing her, the way he'd murmur her name in his sleep.
She was getting used to the emotional detachment, or at least she was getting used to pretending she was used to it.
---
The party was in full swing by the time Paris arrived. She'd only agreed to come because Maya had threatened to physically drag her out of bed, and she was tired of the dark circles under her eyes and the way her roommates kept asking if she was sick.
She told herself she wasn't looking for him.
The lie tasted familiar on her tongue.
The house was packed, bodies pressed together in a sweaty tangle of cheap beer and louder music. She let Maya pull her through the crowd, accepting a red cup she had no intention of drinking from, letting herself be absorbed into the noise and chaos of college life.
And then she saw him.
Justin was across the room, surrounded by his fraternity brothers, his head thrown back in laughter at something one of them had said. He looked relaxed, carefree, so different from the intense man who'd pinned her against her dorm room door last Tuesday. He was wearing a fitted white button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and she could see the muscles of his forearms flex as he lifted his beer to his lips.
He hadn't noticed her yet.
She forced herself to look away, taking a sip of whatever was in her cup. The alcohol burned on its way down, grounding her in the present moment.
"Come on," Maya shouted over the music, grabbing her hand. "There's a guy from my psych class I want you to meet."
Paris let herself be pulled through the crowd, her eyes drifting back to Justin despite her best intentions. He was laughing again, but something in his posture had shifted. His shoulders were tenser than they'd been a moment ago, and she watched as his eyes swept the room—
And found her.
Their gazes locked across the chaos. Her breath caught in her throat. For a long, suspended moment, the noise and bodies around them faded into nothing, leaving only the impossible distance between them.
Then Maya was tugging her arm, and she forced herself to look away.
"I'm not really in the mood to meet anyone," she said, but her protest was lost in the thrum of the bass.
Maya introduced her to someone—Derek, maybe, or Darren—a tall guy with kind eyes and an easy smile. He was in Maya's psychology class. He asked her about her major. She answered on autopilot. English literature. Yes, she'd read Freud. No, she didn't think his theories about women were particularly insightful.
The conversation blurred as her awareness remained fixed on Justin's presence somewhere behind her, a magnetic pull she couldn't ignore.
"So I was thinking," Maya said, her voice cutting through the haze, "we should dance."
And she was gone, swallowed by the crowd, leaving Paris alone with the psychology guy whose name she hadn't retained.
"Want to dance?" He gestured toward the throbbing mass of bodies near the speakers.
She should say no. She should make an excuse and slip away, find some quiet corner where she didn't have to feel the weight of Justin's gaze burning into her back.
"Sure," she heard herself say instead.
Maybe she wanted to see how it felt. Maybe she wanted to prove to herself that she wasn't as tethered to him as she feared.
The psychology guy—Marcus, she suddenly remembered—took her hand and led her onto the dance floor. The music was loud enough to feel in her bones, a pulsing bass that seemed to match the frantic rhythm of her heart. She let herself move, her hips swaying in time with the beat, and she felt something release in her chest.
It felt good to stop thinking.
Marcus moved closer, his hands finding her waist, and she let him. It was just dancing, she told herself. Just two people moving to the music.
But then his body pressed against hers, and she could feel the outline of him through his jeans, and she knew this was more than just dancing. His hands slid down her hips as he moved behind her, his mouth brushing her ear in a way that made her skin prickle.
"You feel good," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the music. "I've been watching you all semester. I didn't think I'd ever get the chance to have you in my arms."
She closed her eyes, letting the sensation wash over her. His body was warm against hers, his hands sure as they guided her movements. It was nothing like the way Justin touched her—there was no history here, no complicated tangle of hurt and want and fear. It was simple. Easy. Just bodies moving together.
She ground back against him, and he let out a low groan that she felt vibrate through his chest into her spine.
"That's right, baby," he breathed into her ear. "Move that ass for me. Make me feel how fucking good you are."
It was filthy. Dirty. The kind of talk she associated with the end of a night, not the beginning. But she didn't pull away, didn't tell him to stop. She kept dancing, her body pressed so close against his that they might as well have been having sex with their clothes on.
"Is that all you got?" She arched back against him, feeling his hardness through both their jeans. "I thought you said you were watching me all semester. Couldn't you tell I like it a little rougher?"
His hands tightened on her hips, pulling her flush against him. "I can give you rough, sweetheart. Just say the word—"
The grip on her arm was sudden and iron-hard, yanking her out of Marcus's embrace.
"What the fuck—"
"Walk away," Justin's voice was low, lethal, directed entirely at the man who'd been grinding against her. "Now."
Marcus's eyes widened as he registered who was standing in front of him. Even in the low light, Paris could see the recognition flicker across his face—Justin was the quarterback, the big man on campus, the guy who could make or break your social standing with a single word.
"Man, I was just—"
"I said walk away." Justin's tone left no room for argument. "This isn't a negotiation."
Marcus looked at Paris, but she couldn't meet his eyes. She was too focused on the violence she could feel thrumming beneath Justin's controlled surface, the barely leashed anger radiating off him in waves.
"Sorry, man," Marcus muttered, melting back into the crowd.
The space around them suddenly felt too small, too hot. Justin's hand was still wrapped around her arm, and she could feel the fine tremor running through his fingers.
"What the hell was that?" She twisted free of his grip. "Who gave you the right to drag me away?"
He stared at her, his jaw tight, his eyes burning with a fury she'd never seen in him before. "Are you serious right now?"
"You had no right—"
"He was groping you." The words came out through gritted teeth. "He was all over you, and you were just letting him—"
"I was dancing," she snapped. "It's a party. People dance at parties. You don't get to swoop in and play the possessive boyfriend when you're not my boyfriend."
The accusation hung between them, sharp and jagged.
"I know I'm not your boyfriend." His voice was low, controlled, but she could hear the edge beneath it. "I know exactly what I am to you. But I couldn't just stand there and watch him touch you like that."
"Then look away." Her words were cruel, and she knew it. "That's what you're supposed to do, right? We're just sex. So go find someone else to fuck and let me do what I want."
Something fractured in his expression. She watched it happen—the anger bleeding into hurt, the hurt being masked by a coldness she hadn't seen since the early days, before the library, before he'd found her in her sanctuary and pushed her against that dusty desk.
"Fine," he said. "If that's how you want it."
He turned and walked away, swallowed by the crowd in seconds. She stood frozen in the middle of the dance floor, surrounded by moving bodies and pulsing music, feeling more alone than she'd ever felt in her life.
A hand touched her shoulder, and she flinched.
"Hey." It was Maya, her face etched with worry. "What happened? I saw J-Smooth dragging you away—"
"I have to go." Paris pulled away, pushing through the bodies toward the exit. "I need to get out of here."
---
The night air hit her like a slap, cold and sharp after the suffocating heat of the party. She walked blindly, her footsteps carrying her without direction until she found herself on the familiar path to the library.
Of course. Of course she'd come here.
The building was dark, closed for the night, but she knew the back entrance—the one with the faulty lock that she'd discovered her first semester when she needed somewhere to hide. She slipped inside, her footsteps echoing through the silent halls as she climbed the narrow staircase to the second-floor study room.
Her sanctuary.
She locked the door behind her, sliding down it until she was sitting on the dusty floor. The tears came then, hot and unwanted, streaming down her cheeks as she buried her face in her hands.
She'd done this to herself. She'd pushed him away, pushed him to the breaking point, because she was too afraid to admit what she actually wanted. She'd told herself she could handle the detachment, the casual hookups, the no-strings-attached arrangement that kept her heart safe.
But she couldn't.
She loved him. She'd loved him since the moment he'd found her in this room, since he'd told her he was in love with her and she'd refused to believe him. She loved him, and she was so terrified of getting hurt that she'd rather hurt him first.
A sound behind her made her freeze.
She turned her head, sniffing, and found Justin standing in the doorway. He must have followed her. He was breathing hard, his shirt untucked, his eyes wild as they took in her tear-streaked face.
"Paris." His voice cracked on her name.
"Go away." She wiped at her face, furious at herself for crying, furious at him for finding her like this. "I don't want to see you."
"I followed you." He stepped forward, closing the door behind him. "You looked so fucking sad, and I couldn't just let you walk away. Not like that."
"I'm fine." The lie was so weak she almost laughed at herself.
"You're not fine." He crossed the room, kneeling in front of her. His hand reached out, cupping her face, his thumb wiping away a stray tear. "Tell me what's wrong. Please. I just want to understand."
“I'm scared.” The confession escaped her, ragged and raw.
"Of what?"
"You." Her voice broke. "I'm scared of how much I feel for you. I'm scared of letting you in and getting destroyed when you leave. I'm scared that I've already fallen for you so hard that I can't find my way back."
He stared at her, his expression shifting through a dozen emotions. And then, slowly, he leaned forward and kissed her.
It was a gentle kiss, nothing like the desperate, greedy kisses they usually shared. It spoke of promise and vulnerability, a quiet surrender between two people who'd spent so long fighting their feelings that they'd forgotten how to simply accept them.
He drew back, gazing at her with fierce tenderness. "I'm not leaving, Paris. I'm not running. I've been waiting for weeks for you to say what you just said, and I'd have waited longer. I'll keep waiting as long as you need."
"Justin..."
"I'm not going to stop loving you," he said, everything in his voice clinging to the moment. "I can't. I've tried, and it's impossible. You're it for me. You've been it since you called me a pretty boy with a peanut-sized brain."
A watery laugh escaped her lips. "I was right about the peanut-sized brain."
"Probably." He grinned, but there was vulnerability beneath the humor. "But I know one thing, and I know it with complete certainty. I want you. Not just your body—though I'm absolutely obsessed with that too. I want your heart. I want your fears and your hopes and your terrible opinions about self-published authors. I want all of you, Paris, for as long as you'll let me have it."
Her walls were crumbling, dust and rubble scattering in the wake of his words.
Take the leap, a voice whispered from somewhere deep within her. Let yourself fall.
She reached up, her fingers trembling as she framed his face, tracing the line of his jaw. "I'm terrified that you're going to hurt me."
"I probably will," he admitted. "Not on purpose. But I'm human, and I'll make mistakes. What I can promise is that I'll never stop trying to make it right. I'll never stop choosing you."
The last of her resistance shattered apart.
She kissed him like it was the end of the world, desperate and hungry and full of a longing she'd been suppressing for weeks. He answered in kind, gathering her into his arms and pulling her onto his lap, tangling his fingers in her hair.
"I want you," she said breathlessly. "Not just the sex. Everything else too. I'm ready to try."
He broke into a boyish grin. "Yeah?"
"Don't make me repeat myself."
"Never." Her clothes were in the way, always in the way, and he was already working them, pulling the hem of her shirt aside to press his mouth to the curve of her shoulder. "I'm going to spend the rest of the night convincing you this was the right decision."