Fury has driven every tender feeling out of my body. I pull my hands away and take a step back, panting.

He just stares at me, saying nothing.

“Ryan? You were never pretending?”

“Nope.” His voice is calm and steady. “I’m sorry, C-Shel. I loved you the whole time.”

“No.”

We look at each other, all pretense gone.

“Yes.”

“No! Impossible! You’re a 10.5 and I’m a 4.”

“Stop it. Stop that now,” he says, all gravel and fire, his voice so serious. “You’re my 10.5 Carrie. I can’t give you a number. You just are. Tell me you feel the same way. Please.”

“I loved you, too, Ryan. I’m sorry I didn’t know it when I was pretending. But I know it now. I love you, I do… love you.”

He just stands there for a minute, taking it all in, our eyes locked as he searches my face, our breathing fast. My chest rises and falls, seconds ticking by, our breath in sync, all that I am vulnerable and raw.

I can’t stand it, blurting out, “What do we do now?”

Before I can finish, his mouth is on mine, the fine fabric of his suit jacket tickling my forearm, his hot mouth eager and demanding. In seconds, this moves out of reunion territory into something magnetic, all-consuming and torrid. I can’t touch him enough, pulling his shirt out from his pants, running my hands up his bare back, his hand cupping my breast, in my hair, cradling my jaw, all of him pressed against me, every part of us needing more.

“I’ve missed you,” he says, voice thick with emotion, hands on my ass, my back, my shoulders, his desperate need to stay in contact with my body matching how I feel about him.

“I can’t believe any of this is happening,” I admit, the thought overwhelming, stronger even than the physical need for Ryan’s heat, his scent, the way his nose nuzzles my neck, how my hands slide up under his open jacket and it falls to the ground. We’re in my kitchen, the counter’s edge digging into my hip, but we might as well be worlds away, alone and in need of nothing more than each other.

“I can’t believe you ever thought I was pretending, Carrie.” He speaks between kisses, my heart soaring.

“What was I supposed to think, Ryan? I took you at your word.” Shaky and shaking, I correct myself. “And I was too afraid to say anything to you. Afraid I was imagining it all.”

“I’ll never lie to you again. Never,” he says fiercely, dipping his head down to kiss me, pulling me up to him with hands that hold my hips, thumbs anchored at my waist.

“Two years,” I marvel, about to let myself get caught up in all the time we’ve wasted, all the misunderstandings — but then I gasp and pull back in horror.

“Oh, God!” I choke out, my hands and feet going numb with the aching reality of what I’ve just done. “I told Chloe I’d take the promotion! I’m about to move, Ryan! Three thousand miles away!” Hyperventilation has never been a character trait of mine, but it’s quickly taking over. The thought of losing Ryan after finding him makes my chest physically hurt.

“C-Shel. Hey, Carrie,” he soothes. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not okay! I finally — we finally — “

“Stanford,” he says slowly, his penetrating gaze so calming. “I’m going to Stanford.”

“Stanford?” I’m having trouble keeping up.

“Stanford,” he repeats firmly. “You made my decision for me. And my family is in the Bay Area, so this is an easy choice. I choose you.”

Laughter, unexpected and completely hysterical, pours out of me like a bottle of prosecco being uncorked. “You choose me? You choose me? I was fleeing you! I took the promotion to get away from working with you because it hurt too much to be around you but not with you. And now you’re telling me you’re moving to San Francisco, too?”

“No.”

“No, you’re not moving?”

“Yes, I’m moving. But no. I’m not telling you anything. We’ll talk later. Let’s,” he says, kissing me gently, “stop talking.”

Ryan moves suddenly, sweeping one arm around my back and the other under my knees, his thighs brushing against my ass, his movement so easy, like he’s lifting a feather, a ball of yarn, a pint of ice cream. We’re kissing, Ryan carrying me without breaking his stride. I melt into him and let the swirling thoughts that tornado through me settle down, absorbing myself in the feel of his skin against mine, the brush of cotton caressing my throat, how his arm stretches under my knees.

It’s a very small apartment. He knows where my bedroom is. I don’t care where he is carrying me, I only want to go with him. A part of the world closes, separated by a giant door constructed of pieces of our souls, giving us privacy and time.

Time to get real.

He lays me down on my bed and I shimmy out of my yoga pants, kicking them away as he strips off his pants, his movements hurried, impatient. Normally, I’d savor this, but the air between us feels so charged with emotion, so much to unravel between us, the only easy form of communication one that happens when we’re naked. Words matter, but they can wait.

My body can’t, though, because my heart is in it, craving him, beating a rhythm that calls for more of Ryan. My bedroom’s in order, the room of a self-possessed woman, wholly on her own. No more, though. As I move the covers and beckon to Ryan, he turns on my bedside lamp, a salt crystal that glows, casting his sublime body in shadow and dim light, all hard lines and deep presence.

“Come here,” I say, direct and clear, unambiguous.

I hold out my arms, urging him, needing him with me, in me, part of me. I’ve been with him before. I know what is possible, and this time we don’t need to tease. Pretense is a distant memory, one we’ll talk through in our own time, at our own pace. Wounds don’t have to bleed to hurt. Pain doesn’t have to create scars to leave a mark.

Healing comes in so many precious ways, and right now, I need to stretch against Ryan’s bare body, to feel him over me, to press up and kiss him with the fullness of my soul.

Bedsheets made of high thread counts move against my bare flesh like silk, the in-between space as Ryan sinks in beside me a warm cocoon. Hungry hands cover me, roaming and free, moving with the abandon of a man given blanket permission to do as he pleases.