The ocean breeze wrapped around Emma like a cozy hug, the salty air tangling in her hair as she stood on the balcony looking out at the Miami coastline.

For the first time in days, maybe even weeks, she felt something start to ease in her chest. The tight knot of anxiety that had settled there since the breakup was finally beginning to loosen up.

She couldn’t tell if it was the sun, the sound of the waves, or the guy leaning against the railing next to her, watching her with those dreamy gray eyes.

It was probably the guy.

Zayn caught her looking and flashed that slow, teasing smile that made her stomach do flips every time. "What’s up?" he asked.

"Nothing." Emma quickly looked away, her cheeks turning hot. The weight of his gaze settled over her, making her pulse quicken, which only made things worse. She was twenty-three—she should be able to glance at a guy without going all red like a middle schooler.

"You’re doing it again," he said.

"Doing what?"

"Biting your lip. You only do that when you’re overthinking things."

Emma instantly stopped, making him laugh—a warm, low sound that didn’t help her racing heart at all. It had only been a few weeks since everything between them began.

It all started when he accidentally spilled coffee on her shirt in the mall. She had called him an idiot, and he’d responded by booking a reservation at his own restaurant—one of the top three in the city, and her absolute favorite—for her and her father as an apology.

At first, she thought he was just being polite.

Then he showed up at her restaurant the other day, suggesting an apology dinner that felt a lot like a proposal.

After that, he walked her home, and now they were here, in his penthouse in Miami. She never thought they’d be alone like this so soon after he opened up about his feelings.

"You’re doing it again," Zayn said softly.

Emma blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Overthinking." He turned toward her fully, leaning on the railing. The afternoon sun caught his dark hair, making his gray eyes look softer and warmer. He was seriously good-looking in a way that made her want to stare at him forever, but also want to hide her face. "What’s going on in that head of yours?"

I’m scared. I like you way too much. I don’t even know how to do this. I’ve never been here before. What if I mess things up? What if you realize I’m not worth the effort?

"Nothing," she said instead. "Just... checking out the view."

His lips curled into a smirk. "Enjoying the view, huh?"

"Please, don’t."

"I haven’t said a thing."

"You were about to."

He laughed again, and Emma couldn’t help but grin back, even though her cheeks felt hot. That’s the thing about Zayn: he made her want to be brave. He made her want to stop hiding behind her carefully built walls and just be herself—the shy, awkward, slightly too-quiet girl she’d tried to push away for years.

"Want to go inside?" he asked, nodding toward the glass doors. "The sun’s getting pretty intense out here."

Emma glanced at the open doors leading into the penthouse and then back at the ocean. She wasn’t ready for this golden hour to finish or to leave this moment with the breeze between them and his full attention on her. "In a minute."

He nodded, always patient, and didn’t pressure her. That was another thing about Zayn—he never rushed. He waited. He watched. He made space for her to figure out what she wanted, and then he was right there when she finally found the guts to ask for it.

The silence stretched between them, comfortable yet charged. Emma could feel the weight of his gaze, sensing him holding back. Something inside her, something bolder than she usually let out, decided to speak.

"You can kiss me, you know."

The words slipped out quieter than she meant, almost lost to the wind. But he heard them. Of course, he heard them.

His eyebrows shot up slightly. "Oh, really?"

Emma nodded, then quickly looked down at her hands gripping the railing. "If you want to. Only if you—"

"Emma."

She looked back up at him.

He had moved closer without her noticing, close enough for her to catch the cedar and salt scent of his skin, to see the faint scar above his eyebrow that he’d told her about last night—a childhood bike accident, he said, laughing at himself. His eyes weren’t teasing anymore; they were soft, searching, silently asking for permission.

"I’ve wanted to kiss you since you called me an idiot," he said.

"That was your fault."

"Totally my fault." He reached out, and she held her breath as his fingers brushed a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear with a gentleness that made her chest tighten. "But I’m not going to do anything you’re not ready for. You tell me when. You tell me how. You’re in charge here, Emma. Always."

Her heart raced so fast she was sure he could hear it, her fingers curling slightly against his shirt. No one had ever talked to her like this—like her feelings actually mattered and her comfort was the most important thing right then.

She stepped closer, then closer still, until her hands were flat against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart under her palms. He felt solid and warm, and she could sense the tension in his muscles, the careful control he had over himself.

"What if I’m not sure what I want?" she whispered, the words slipping out before she could think twice. "What if I want everything, but I’m just... scared?"

He gently covered her hands with his, holding them against his chest. "Then we go at your pace. We’ll figure it out together. You say stop, we stop. You say wait, we wait. As long as you need. I’m not going anywhere."

She really believed him.

That was the scary part—she actually believed him.