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"So don't do it for you," he says softly. "Do it for me."

His touch is so gentle it barely counts as touching at all. He isn't forcing me. He's simply waiting.

Slowly, I let him tip my face up until my eyes meet his.

"Good," he murmurs.

For a second, he just looks at me. "Listen to me."

I swallow.

"There is absolutely nothing wrong with you. I promise you." His voice is gentle, but there's also an unmistakable certainty behind it. "You are not behind. You're not broken. You're not failing some imaginary dating test."

A tear slips free before I can stop it.

“It’s okay to feel overwhelmed. It’s okay to have no idea what you’re doing. There isn’t a rulebook that says there’s one right way to do any of this. You get to find your own way. Nobody else’s.”

I have no idea how Wyatt knows exactly what I need to hear, but somehow he does.

The tight knot that's been sitting in my chest since dinner loosens, little by little, until I can finally take a full breath.

He's looking at me like he doesn't expect anything from me. Like I don't have to impress him or earn his approval. Like I'm enough exactly as I am.

Warmth blooms in my chest, quiet and unfamiliar.

It must show on my face.

Ever so slowly, Wyatt lifts a hand toward me, giving me every chance to pull away, just as he did on the Ferris wheel.

Only this time, there's no panic beneath my skin. No fear of heights or falling. Just the quiet certainty that whatever happens next is entirely my choice.

And this is exactly what I've been waiting for.

So when he finally kisses me, it feels like relief.

This isn't like our first kiss. I don't need rescuing, and I'm not trying to distract myself from the possibility of dying a hundred feet in the air.

I just want him.

And from the way his mouth moves softly against mine, unhurried, like he's got nowhere else to be, I think he wants me just as much.

His thumb traces a slow line along my jaw, gentle enough to make my breath catch.

The kiss is careful at first, tentative in a way that doesn't match the easy confidence he wears everywhere else, and somehow that matters more than anything he could've said.

He tastes faintly of mint gum, and suddenly I'm aware of everything: the warmth of his palm against my cheek, the way his other hand hovers near my waist as though he's waiting for permission to touch me, and the small, involuntary sound he makes when I tilt my head and kiss him back properly.

My hands find the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the soft cotton as I pull him a little closer. I can feel the firm muscles of his chest beneath the fabric and the steady beat of his heart against my palms.

His hand slides from my jaw into my hair, his touch still careful, as though he's not quite sure he's allowed to do this. His fingers settle at the nape of my neck, and when he draws me closer, a pleasant shiver runs down my spine.

We keep kissing until the food has gone cold beside us, and neither of us seems to care. Until I stop thinking about Adam, about the dress lying in a heap on my bedroom floor, or about how clueless I felt earlier tonight.

For once, I'm not wondering what I'm supposed to do or say.

I'm just kissing Wyatt, and I don't want to stop.

All those worries that felt so monumental an hour ago have dissolved into nothing, replaced by the overwhelming reality of Wyatt's mouth on mine.