The Hardware Store

by cupcakecutie_98

Summary:

This is a story in which the unsung hero of Ground Control, John Quinn falls in love with the hardware store owner's daughter (OC).

Beginning amidst the hum of fluorescent lights in the hardware store, a chance encounter with John, a man exuding quiet confidence and genuine character, leads to an unexpected invitation and a surge of anticipation. Initially struck by his practical style and subtle aura, she finds herself agreeing to meet him later. A lingering scent of vanilla and a warm, boyish smile solidify her interest, turning a mundane hour into a whirlwind of daydreams.

At the designated meeting point, a palpable tension hangs in the air. The offer of his jacket, a gesture both comforting and thoughtful, further amplifies the growing connection. Carrying his scent, it envelops her in subtle, earthy cologne.

Overwhelmed by the intensity of the connection, with her face buried in his chest, his genuine concern and ability to see past her outer shell create an intimacy that transcends the physical, leaving her feeling completely exposed, yet more empowered than ever before. The night, she realizes, is hers to claim, filled with the promise of exploring the depths of this newfound connection.

Notes:

"Where are you going?" Susan asked the resourceful mechanic incredulously. "The hardware store," he answered, holding up the circuit board with a pair of pliers.

Chapter 1: The Echo of Bronze and Tin: A Moment in Time at Stan's Hardware

Summary:

"Requisition form... months ago..."

With determination he hurried off past the front desk where I stood checking order forms, down an aisle, and I leaned over my desk to watch him disappear around the corner.

"I think forty-one should cover it," he said, tossing an assortment of welding supplies down on the counter as he recounted it.

Taking a handful of bills from the wallet in the back pocket of his cuffed, black jeans, our gaze met as he handed the money to me.

"You're not Stan," he realized.

"You're right. I'm his daughter. I'm covering while he visits his brother in Vermont," I said, taking the bills from his hands. It seemed like an odd way of doing business, but he and dad probably did this all the time.

Then he gathered the items back up into his arms before I could bag them.

"Well, I hope he has a good-- long vacation," he said in a thought-out, staccato sort of way.

Before I could think to respond, he started to leave and my chest got a little heavy as I watched, but turning towards me to push the glass door open with his shoulder, he paused, looked at me like he was going to say something, and then left. The only noise was the bell.

Notes:

The unassuming bell above the door of Stan's Hardware, a fixture as familiar as the weathered brick of the building itself, sang its unique song. It wasn't a melodic chime, nor a gentle ding; it was a clamorous, slightly off-key clang, a sound born of the humble union of bronze and tin, a noise that spoke of years – perhaps decades – of countless entries and exits. It was a sound that was, in its own way, iconic to the small town, a sonic signature of the heart of the community. Each time its discordant notes resonated, it was a signal, not just of someone coming in, but of a potential story unfolding, a problem to be solved, or a project to be undertaken.

Today, the bell's announcement was followed by the entry of a man, a figure whose appearance suggested a mind far removed from the everyday world of hammers and screws, nails and washers. He was, to put it mildly, preoccupied. His brow was furrowed in a deep line of thought, his gaze focused somewhere beyond the confines of the old hardware shop. His shoulders were hunched slightly, as if carrying the weight of a complex problem. He walked with a cautious gait, as if navigating a minefield, his movements precise and deliberate. This was not a man casually browsing for a new set of pliers; this was someone on a mission.

The most telling feature of this newcomer, however, was what he held clasped in his hands: a circuit board. It wasn't pristine and new, fresh from a factory; rather, it was marked with the patina of use, its copper traces dulled, its components bearing the scars of previous soldering sessions and perhaps a few frustrating failures. It looked like something salvaged from the innards of a machine, a piece of technological detritus imbued with a curious, almost desperate importance.

The circuit board was not held loosely; rather, it was held with a grip that suggested a precious item, something vital to his purpose. His fingers traced the edges of the board, almost lovingly, as if seeking answers in its complex patterns. The green of the board, the tiny silver legs of the resistors, and the minute black rectangles of the integrated circuits seemed to hold secrets that only he could decipher. The way he held it suggested a profound connection, a silent dialogue between creator and creation, a tense back-and-forth between problem and solution.

The man himself was an enigma. His clothing was practical, certainly not the attire of someone accustomed to formal settings. A faded blue work shirt, tucked into equally worn jeans, spoke of a life spent in the trenches of some sort of project. His hands, though not calloused from manual labor in the traditional sense, had a dexterity and purpose that suggested familiarity with tools both large and small, tools both manual and electronic. He had a few days' worth of stubble on his face, hinting that sleep had been a lower priority than the task at hand. His eyes, when they did momentarily flick from the circuit board to assess his surroundings, were intelligent and slightly tired, the eyes of a man who’d seen sleepless nights and the frustrating dead-ends that technical work so often entails.

The air in Stan's Hardware seemed to subtly shift as the man entered. The usual scent of oiled wood, rusty metal, and dusty cardboard took on a slightly different character, as if a new, unexpected ingredient had been added to the mix. The familiar rhythm of the shop, the casual banter between Stan and his regular customers, was momentarily punctuated by his presence. The store, so often a backdrop to simple transactions, felt, for a moment, as if it had been drawn into a far more complex narrative, a mystery just waiting to be unraveled.

What was the nature of the man's project? Was he fixing a broken appliance, tinkering with a personal passion project, or perhaps involved in something far more complex? The circuit board held no easy answers, just a jigsaw of components that hinted at a challenging puzzle. The bell's clang, which had seemed so ordinary moments before, now echoed with a newfound significance, a herald of a deeper story that had just entered Stan’s Hardware, a story that, with a bit of patience and observation, was about to unfold. The stage was set; the curtain had just risen, and the performance, whatever that may be, was ready to begin. The simple fact of the man’s presence, the clanging bell, and the prominent circuit board, transformed the mundane into the mysterious, the ordinary into the intriguing. The small hardware store, for a fleeting moment, became the center of a story waiting to be told.

The Weight of Bronze and Tin: A Day at Stan's Hardware

The air in Stan's Hardware was thick with the scent of sawdust, metal, and time. It was a smell I'd known my whole life, a comforting aroma that usually meant Dad was close by, probably tinkering with something in the back. But today, the familiar scent was tinged with a subtle unease, a quiet hum of difference that only I, his daughter, could detect. The bell above the door, a relic of a bygone era, clanged its familiar tune as someone entered – a sound that always held a mix of welcome and disruption, a little like a rusty trumpet announcing a new act in the shop’s daily play. This time, the clang seemed particularly loud, almost accusatory, as if the very building itself was aware of my father’s absence.

The man who’d entered was not the usual customer, not one of the town's familiar faces. He moved with a focused intensity, his attention seemingly locked on a small circuit board held up by the jaws of a pair of well-worn pliers. The wires and components of the board were a chaotic jumble to me, but they were clearly the center of this man's world at that moment. He muttered to himself, his words barely audible above the gentle hum of the store’s ancient refrigerator, "Requisition form... months ago..." The words were laced with a frustration that hinted at a drawn-out ordeal, a bureaucratic battle fought and apparently not yet won.

He was dressed in a way that suggested practicality over style – cuffed, black jeans that looked like they’d seen their fair share of work, and a dark, unbranded t-shirt. His dark hair was slightly tousled, like he’d been running his hands through it absentmindedly, a habit I recognized from my own Dad during particularly challenging projects. He didn't seem to notice me at my usual spot at the front desk; his eyes were fixed on the intricacies of the circuit board, his whole being absorbed in some internal problem-solving session. With a sudden surge of purpose, he pivoted and hurried off, disappearing down one of the narrow aisles, his footsteps echoing down the length of the store. I leaned over my desk, my own order forms momentarily forgotten, drawn into the mystery of this peculiar man and his project.

The quiet that settled after he was gone was heavy. I was supposed to be filling in for Dad, managing the orders and ringing up sales, but honestly, the quiet was a little unnerving. This hardware store wasn't just a business to me; it was a living, breathing entity, filled with the echoes of Dad's laughter, the stories he shared with customers, and of course, the constant soundtrack of tinkering. It was a place used to the rhythm of our lives, but today that rhythm was off-kilter.

Not long after he’d disappeared, he reappeared at the counter, his arms now laden with a variety of welding supplies. With a decisive motion, he dropped the items onto the worn wood, each piece clattering against the others. The sound was more urgent this time, the staccato rhythm echoing his earlier frustration. He began counting the items out loud, his voice a low rumble, "One… two… three... I think forty-one should cover it," each count punctuated with the tap of a piece of metal on the counter. He wasn't just buying supplies; he was arming himself for something.

He pulled a wad of bills from the back pocket of his jeans, a disorganized collection of crumpled singles and fives. As he extended the money, our gazes finally met. His eyes were a striking shade of blue, a sharp contrast to his dark hair and the muted tones of his attire. They were intelligent eyes, full of a quiet intensity, but they also held a hint of surprise, maybe even a flicker of disappointment.

"You’re not Stan," he stated, his voice holding a note of realization. It wasn't a question, but a statement of fact, delivered with a clarity that suggested he had been expecting someone else.

"You’re right. I’m his daughter. I’m covering while he visits his brother in Vermont," I replied, taking the money from his outstretched hand. The bills were slightly warm, carrying the trace of his body heat. It seemed like a strange way to settle up, allowing him to count out the supplies on his own, but this was how Stan did things. He trusted people. I assumed this was just another of his regulars.

He quickly gathered the items back into his arms, a bundle of metal and wire that looked like it was trying to escape his grasp. He didn’t wait for me to bag them, which was odd. Usually, even the most hurried of customers waited for the ritual of the paper bag transfer, the small-talk that accompanied it. This man seemed to want to escape as soon as possible.

"Well, I hope he has a good— long vacation," he said slowly, each word deliberately chosen, each syllable carefully enunciated. The way he said it, with a strange, drawn-out emphasis, made the simple sentence sound loaded with a deeper, hidden meaning. It wasn’t just a polite wish; it was a declaration, a statement of intention.

The way he looked at me then, those intense blue eyes boring into mine, made my chest feel strangely heavy. I knew what he meant, I felt it. It wasn't about my dad, not really. His “long vacation” was somehow tied to him and his mysterious project, and I was just an obstacle. A silent question seemed to hover between us, one that neither of us dared to voice. My mind raced, trying to decipher the complex code this stranger had suddenly thrust upon me.

Without another word, he turned and started to leave, his movements quick and almost abrupt. He reached the door and paused, his hand hovering over the cool glass, his body blocking my view of the street outside. He turned back to me, his expression shifting, his lips parting slightly as if he was about to speak, to finally voice the unspoken words that hung so heavily in the air. But then, just as quickly, he seemed to reconsider. He shrugged slightly, a gesture of defeat or resignation, and pushed the door open with his shoulder, disappearing out into the day.

The bell above the door clanged again, the sound strangely hollow this time, devoid of any welcoming warmth. It was just the stark, metallic echo of his exit, a lonely reminder of the man who had briefly ignited the quiet rhythm of my day and then vanished, leaving behind a sense of unease, a heavy heart, and a lingering mystery in the dust-filled air of Stan’s Hardware. The usual sounds of the store – the ticking of the old clock, the gentle hum of the refrigerator – seemed amplified, as if the room itself was holding its breath, waiting for the next clang of the bell, waiting for the next disruption, waiting for the return of the rhythm it had lost with the departure of my father, and now, with the departure of this enigmatic stranger. It was no longer just a hardware store; it was a stage, and I was now waiting for the next act.

Chapter 2: The Unlikely Encounter in the Bolt Aisle

The fluorescent lights of Stan's Hardware hummed, a constant, monotonous drone that typically faded into the background of my shopping trips. But this wasn't a typical trip. The memory of the previous evening, with its unexpected late-night delivery and the enigmatic man who'd appeared at my door, was still fresh, a vibrant splash of color in the otherwise muted palette of my day.

I found myself in the bolt aisle, a place I rarely frequented, aimlessly running my fingers over the various sizes and finishes of the metal fasteners. Was I subconsciously seeking him out? I couldn’t be sure, but as I rounded the corner, there he was. He was reaching for something on a high shelf, his body stretching upwards, causing the fabric of his worn t-shirt to pull taut against his back. He was clearly focused, brow furrowed in concentration, and entirely unaware of my presence. The scene was both charming and a little vulnerable, and a smile tugged at the corner of my lip. He seemed so immersed in his task, so completely “in his head,” as he’d put it earlier, that the urge to speak to him was almost irresistible.

"Did everything work out okay last night?" I asked, the words slipping out almost before I'd fully considered them.

He blinked and slowly turned, his gaze shifting from the shelf to me, a subtle flicker of surprise crossing his features. "Oh, it's you," he remarked, as if just now registering my presence. There was a faint flush rising on his cheeks. "Yeah, it was a lifesaver, literally."

The word “literally” hung in the air, laden with a weight I couldn't quite grasp. What had happened last night? What could be so "literally" life-saving that a simple delivery could have such impact? My curiosity, which had been piqued yesterday, was now fully engaged.

I had to ask. The thought had been nagging at me since our first encounter, and now seemed like an opportune moment. "What is it you do?"

He paused for a moment, perhaps still adjusting to the shift in conversation. “I am a computer mechanic at the airport,” he said finally, and there was an underlying note of pride in his voice, yet it was understated and humble at the same time.

"That must be exciting," I responded, picturing a world of flashing lights and intricate systems. My imagination ran wild, conjuring images of vast control rooms and technicians racing to avert disaster.

He nodded, a barely perceptible movement of his head. “Yeah, you could call it that.” He then seemed to gather his thoughts, a hint of a smile touching his lips. “Would you like to go out for lunch sometime?”

The invitation caught me a little off guard, and a surge of pleasant surprise washed over me. The way he asked, so straightforward and matter-of-fact, was endearing. Without hesitation, I replied, "I’d love to."

There was a decisive quality about him, a sense of purpose that seemed to guide his every action. He was the type of person who knew what he wanted and didn’t waste time in getting there, and it was a trait I found utterly captivating.

"How's tomorrow?" he asked, his gaze meeting mine directly.

A little spark of boldness ignited within me. "How's today?" I countered, eager to capitalize on the momentum of our interaction. "You've seen my place of work, maybe you could show me yours?"

He looked momentarily startled by my suggestion, as though no one had ever expressed such an interest in his work. “You’d really like that?” he asked, a note of disbelief threading through his voice. "It's just a bunch of outdated computers and tangled wires." He sounded almost apologetic, as if his workplace held little to no value.

I didn't want him to feel like his work was anything less than intriguing to me, but I also didn't want to push him past his boundaries. "I like seeing people in their element," I explained, trying to convey my genuine interest without putting him on the spot. "I mean, we don't have to..."

“No,” he said quickly, his hand making a dismissive gesture in the air. "That’s fine, more than fine. You just surprised me is all." He was sincere, and I found his honesty refreshing. The quickness of his response suggested that he may have wanted this more than he was letting on.

We stopped then, both of us silent, the hum of the lights now a noticeable sound. It was a moment of quiet contemplation, a brief pause in the hurried pace of the hardware store. I took the chance to really look at him. His style wasn't flashy; it was practical, comfortable, and he carried himself with a quiet confidence. He was just emanating good character, as if it were an aura that simply followed him.

The silence was broken by him after a moment, “I’ll get you cleared and then I’ll meet you at the west gate in an hour. How’s that?”

“I look forward to it,” I replied, a warmth spreading through me as I turned and began to walk towards the back of the store. As I passed, I caught a faint scent, something natural and deep, a subtle note of vanilla that lingered in the air. He smelled… good.

Reaching the end of the aisle, I found myself glancing back over my shoulder. He was doing the same, and as our eyes met, a boyish smile spread across his face. It was a genuine smile, filled with a surprising amount of warmth, and it caused my heart to flutter just a little. My little brown watch, usually a simple tool used to mark the passing of time, now held a newfound significance. It read 11:23. For the next hour, my mind was anywhere but Stan's Hardware store, lost in anticipation of our impromptu adventure. The shelves of bolts and screws faded into oblivion, replaced by a growing excitement and a curiosity to explore the world of airport computers with this surprisingly charming man.

Chapter 3: <3

The sun beat down on the asphalt, creating a shimmering haze that distorted the edges of the world. "West Gate Visitor Parking" read the stark white sign, an unyielding sentinel in the otherwise unremarkable landscape. He leaned against it, a casual posture that belied the barely contained energy radiating off him. My eyes, glued to my watch for what felt like the thousandth time, confirmed what I already knew: I wasn't late. If anything, I suspected, like me, he was early. An unspoken tension hung in the air between us, a silent dance of eagerness and uncertainty. Words seemed inadequate, clumsy tools in the face of this budding connection.

He broke the silence with a movement, reaching into his pocket and producing a small, rectangular object. A guest badge. I stared at it, my mind momentarily blank. What was I supposed to do with it? It felt alien in my hand, a foreign object in this already surreal encounter.

"May I?" he asked, his voice a gentle rumble that cut through my confusion. He had noticed my hesitance, my unspoken question. Before I could answer, or even formulate a thought, he moved closer. My breath hitched, a small, involuntary response to the close proximity. He gently pulled the waistband of my skirt away from my body, just enough to allow his fingers to slip between the fabric and my skin. I held my breath as he clipped the badge onto the left-hand side, mirroring the way he wore his own. A shiver ran through me, a cascade of sensation that I desperately hoped he would attribute to the slight chill in the air, not the exhilarating rush of excitement that coursed through my veins. I silently prayed that he wouldn't notice the telltale flush creeping up my neck.

"Oh, here," he said, interrupting my thoughts and pulling me out of my reverie. He slipped out of his olive-grey jacket and draped it around my shoulders. It was a gesture of unexpected care, a small act that resonated with surprising depth. "It is a bit of a walk. What are you doing out here without a coat, young lady?" His tone was teasing, but his eyes held a genuine warmth.

"I wasn't really thinking; my mind was elsewhere," I confessed, wrapping the jacket tighter around myself. The fabric was soft and slightly worn, carrying the faint scent of his cologne, a subtle blend of something earthy and masculine. It engulfed me, feeling comically large and ridiculously comfortable. It was an overwhelmingly pleasant sensation, reminding me of the disorientation I felt when I'd walked passed him in the aisle earlier, a fleeting moment that had left me lost in a sea of possibilities.

"Thanks," I finally managed to say, the word a soft whisper against the weight of the moment.

"No problem." He smiled, a genuine expression that crinkled the corners of his eyes. I was aware that he was studying me, taking in the sight of me swallowed by his jacket, and there was a hint of amusement in his gaze.

"Well, right this way," he said, shaking himself from his thoughts as if snapping back to reality. He placed a hand gently on my shoulder, guiding me forward. The simple contact sent a jolt of electricity through me, a silent promise of something more to come. We passed through the steel gates of the high, chain-link fence, the official boundary of this enigmatic place. Men and women, all clad in button-down shirts, occasionally brushed by us, their gazes lingering a moment longer than necessary, registering our presence.

He pointed out the various buildings as we walked, naming their functions and their corresponding departments; and then he started talking about the computers, his voice took on a new quality, a spark igniting in his eyes. He was fully engaged, completely at peace in his environment. As he opened the door to the place where he spent the majority of his time, he became even more relaxed, more self-assured. It was as though he had stepped into his natural habitat.

"So, are there any questions I can answer for you or are you absolutely, totally, and completely bored?" he asked, settling himself on the edge of his desk. He was observing me with an open, curious expression, a hint of apprehension flickering at the edges of his gaze.

"I wouldn't even know what to ask about all the technical stuff, but what about you? I mean, I don't even know your name," I said, the frankness of my statement surprising even myself.

His face fell, his hand coming up to rest his head forward in embarrassment on his fist, pinching the skin between his eyebrows in a way that was endearing and a little bit goofy. "Oh my goodness, you're right," he said, shaking his head slightly as if chastising himself. In that moment, the image I had of him, the confident stranger, softened and morphed into a more relatable, more human persona.

"I'm Liv Donovan," I said, extending my hand.

"John Quinn," he replied, his handshake firm and polite, like one you'd give when you've made a good business deal with someone. "Nice to meet you."

"It's nice to meet you too," I echoed, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. He was so handsome, with a kind of effortless charm that made my stomach flip.

"So, I usually am caught up in whatever I'm doing and forget to eat lunch entirely, but I've heard the cafeteria here is actually quite nice, or I can take you out someplace in town; whatever you would like," he told me, his gaze fixed on me.

"Well, if it is up to me, and seeing as how you usually skip lunch, why don't we just stay here and... get to know each other?" I suggested, the words feeling audacious as they left my lips.

He didn't say anything for a moment, his brow furrowed in thought. It was obvious that he was considering it; mulling it over. It was an almost endearing quirk, how his mind worked. "What?" he asked, breaking the silence with a small, hesitant laugh, coming back to his surroundings, his attention fully on me.

"Fine, that's fine," he said, his movements a bit jerky, standing up abruptly from his desk and adjusting a few buttons on one of the large machines, a nervous tic that added to his charm.

"Are you nervous?" I asked him, brazenly, my gaze unwavering, pushing the boundaries of the interaction.

He pointed to himself, a comical expression of disbelief on his face. "Me? Nervous? ...Absolutely." His admission was disarming, cutting through the layers of pretense, revealing a vulnerability that was intensely appealing.

The room was noticeably warmer than the rest of the building, a comfortable heat radiating from the hum of the computers. I carefully folded his jacket, smoothing out the creases, before he placed it on top of a filing cabinet.

"I really like you," I admitted, the words spilling out without hesitation. It was a reckless declaration, born out of a sense of overwhelming honesty. "I hardly even know you and I don't know all the reasons why, but know I like you."

He searched my face, his gaze intense, and a small, captivating, half-smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "You're a very honest person, Liv."

"No, I'm not," I said, shaking my head, feeling the need to correct him, "not about everything."

"Well, I think you could be an honest person, and I-- have-- a proposition then, if you will. Why don't we spend our next fifty-two minutes being completely honest with each other?" His words were measured, each syllable carefully chosen, the proposition presented with a directness that was both thrilling and intimidating. He stared directly at me, his arms folded across his chest, leaning back against the desk and completely serious.

My heart raced as I gazed deep into his mesmerizing eyes, folded my arms across my ample bosom, and leaned back against the desk. I was determined to make this night unforgettable, to show him the true depths of my desire.

'I think you're serious,' I quivered, my voice barely above a whisper. The sexual tension between us was palpable, like a thick fog that clung to every inch of my trembling skin.

'I am serious,' he replied, his voice low and husky. He locked eyes with me, his gaze smoldering with barely contained lust. This man was dangerous, and I craved every ounce of peril he promised.

'It could be dangerous,' I breathed, my lips curving into a seductive smile. The air crackled with potential, each word an electric caress against my sensitive flesh.

'I can handle dangerous,' I purred, arching my back wantonly. I was no naive maiden to be cowed by a little risk. No, I was a woman unleashed, starving to be consumed by the flames of his passion.

'Alright, let's try it,' I agreed with a sultry nod, emboldened by the fire in his eyes. I knew the path I was about to tread would lead to my delicious destruction.

'What are you thinking about right now?' he asked, his voice a sinful rumble that sent shivers down my spine. I bit my plump lower lip, letting my gaze slowly rake over his chiseled form.

'You, obviously,' I whined, my voice dripping with need. I couldn't possibly hide my hunger for him, not with the way my body ached to be filled by his rigid length.

'What about me?' he pressed, a wicked smirk playing about his mouth. He stalked towards me with the grace of a jungle cat, his muscles rippling beneath his fitted shirt.

I ran my dainty tongue across my crimson-stained teeth as I drank in the sight of him, my core throbbing with each heavy thump of my heart. Finally, I met his molten gaze and spoke my deepest fantasy out loud.

'I like the way your clothes fit,' I resolved, my voice a breathless whisper. Oh, how I longed to lay my eager hands along the planes of his chest, to feel his warmth seeping into my very bones!

'That was unexpected,' he admitted, his smirk widening into a sinful grin as he pulled my quivering form flush against his hard body. I let out a throaty moan, arching wantonly into his firm grip.

His hand slid up the side of my face and he captured my lips in a searing kiss, his mouth hot and demanding. I was lost, drowning in the feel of him, in the taste of his tongue as it tangled with mine. His other hand grabbed my back, pressing me impossibly closer as he begged entry to my mouth. I granted it readily, my body singing at the feel of his thick length nestling against my belly.

When he finally broke the kiss, I was panting, my eyes glazed with arousal. 'Is this okay with you?' he rasped, his thumb stroking the flushed apple of my cheek. I could only nod, too far gone to form words, just wanting to kiss him more. His scent enveloped me, an intoxicating blend of leather and sin that made my head spin.

Needing to be closer, I fisted my hands in the lapels of his shirt and dragged him down into another deep, filthy kiss. God, he tasted divine, a dark ambrosia more addictive than any drug. He was ruined for me - I knew I could never crave another after having a taste of his essence. My fingers held onto the lapels of his sage green, button-up shirt, which he wore open over a white undershirt, and it guided me back into another deep kiss with him. Easily, it was the most attractive outfit in the world, at least on him. He even wore black Converse. Not knowing what to do next, I broke from the kiss and buried my face in his chest. His heart was beating fiercely and listening to it made me realize even more that he was his own person; there was no one like him in the world and he wouldn't be like anyone I had known, which gave me a lot of hope. His hand cradled the back my head and he kissed the top of it.

He pulled back with a ragged groan, his chest heaving. 'Hey,' he said, his voice rough with need. 'Are you okay? You seem...overwhelmed.'

'Yeah. I just want to hold you,' I breathed, my voice small and needy. The compassion in his tone nearly undid me then and there. To be seen so clearly, to be understood so thoroughly - it was more intimate than anything our bodies had done.

Being completely, utterly honest was the only option. I was naked before him, mind, body and soul - and I'd never felt more powerful in my very existence. This night was mine for the taking, and I would claim all he had to offer with greedy hands.