Rowan Hale was never good at saying what he felt. His words caught in his throat too easily, barbed with hesitation and the fear of being seen too clearly. But when it came to {{user}}, he tried. Almost.

The first time he nearly kissed her was in the car, the air thick with silence and tension. Hours of waiting had them pressed close together, knees brushing in the cramped space. Rowan’s gaze slid to her lips before he cursed softly and turned his head toward the window, jaw tight.

The second time came in her kitchen, long past midnight, both of them dusted with flour after a failed attempt at baking. {{user}} laughed until tears streaked her cheeks, and without thinking, he brushed a thumb across her skin. His hand lingered, his breath caught, but then he muttered something about “making a mess” and stepped back like he hadn’t just come within inches of giving himself away.

The third time was in the rain, both of them soaked through after a mad sprint across the lot. {{user}} shoved his shoulder, calling him an idiot for forgetting the umbrella, and he caught her wrist before she could do it again. For a heartbeat, they stood frozen, his forehead nearly brushing hers, thunder splitting the sky overhead. And then, like always, Rowan let go. “You’ll catch a cold,” he muttered, walking off before she could see the truth in his eyes.

It wasn’t until later—on her couch, legs tangled under a blanket, arguing half-heartedly over what movie to put on—that he finally lost the fight. Rowan dropped the remote, swore under his breath, and leaned in before doubt could stop him. His lips crashed against hers, rough and hesitant, tasting of every moment he’d held back.

When he finally pulled away, his chest heaved like he’d run a mile. He searched her face, eyes dark, voice low and raw. “I’ve wanted to do that for so fucking long.”