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He set the box of tissues on the counter and slid it toward me. Then he went over to the cupboard, pulled out two glasses, added a round ball of ice to each glass, and poured scotch into both.

“I heard you from the office,” he said, pushing one glass toward me. “Didn’t seem like a tea kind of cry,”

I laughed, then grabbed a tissue and pressed it against my eyes.

“Thank you, I know I shouldn’t be working down here but I had muffins in the oven.” I said, taking a sip. The scotch burned, cutting through the tightness in my chest.

He leaned against the counter across from me. Once again he was close enough that I could smell his cologne. As I met his eyes, I was sure he was going to give me shit for working in the kitchen again, but he surprised me.

“Don’t worry about it. What were you writing?”

“The sad part.” I sniffed. “The male main character is having an emotional breakdown in his driveway.”

“That sounds cheerful.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a romance. You need to break them before you fix them.” I took another sip of scotch.

His eyes held mine.

“Is that how it works?” He asked.

“In books, yes,” I said, taking another sip. “Real life unfortunately doesn’t always come with a guaranteed happy ending.”

“No,” he looked down at the glass in his hand. “It doesn’t.”

We both grew quiet. The fairy lights I’d hung cast a warm glow over everything, while outside, rain fell in thick, silent curtains. I took a deep breath, still smelling the scent of pumpkin spice from the muffins I’d baked.

Everett set his glass down and straightened. He was standing closer to me now.

“You have…” He reached out and brushed his thumb under my eyes, catching a tear I’d missed. His hand was warm and his thumb rough, and I think I stopped breathing when he didn’t immediately pull his hand away.

“Ember.”

“Yes?” I murmured, slowly looking up at him.

He looked down at me with the exact expression I’d been trying to explain for the past six chapters and still failed to get right. Pain and want, tangled so tightly together you couldn’t separate one from the other. The look of a man standing at the edge and hating the thought of wanting to jump.

Before I could comprehend what was happening, he bent down and kissed me.

His mouth landed on mine with frustrated urgency, and his hand slid from my cheek to the back of my neck as he pulled me closer. It felt like someone else was controlling me; I grabbed the front of his sweater and my mind went blank.

I could taste the scotch as his stubble scraped my chin. I gasped against his mouth, and he swallowed the sound and kissed me deeper, his tongue sliding against mine. Heat ran through me as his body pressed against mine.

“We shouldn’t…” he said, pulling back an inch.

“Probably not,” I whispered, breathing hard as I pulled him back in. I hated his absence already.

He let out a groan, deep in his chest. I stood up and his hands dropped to my waist, lifting me onto the counter as if I weighed nothing. He stepped between my legs, the charms on my bracelet clinked, and he huffed what could have been a laugh against my mouth.

“I hate this sweater,” he muttered.

“Liar.”

His mouth moved to my neck, open, hot, his teeth grazing the skin below my ear. I arched into him with a moan, my legs wrapping around his waist. Through the thin fabric of my leggings, I could feel him, hard and rigid, pressing against me, and my hips rolled on instinct, seeking friction.

“Fuck,” he moaned, his forehead dropping to my shoulder. “Ember, tell me to stop,” he said, his hands tightening on my hips.

“No,”