Chapter 4: Ten Minutes
The fire had burned down to a glowing skeletal remains of orange embers, casting long, flickering shadows against the sand. Athena and Caleb had finally retreated inside, their muffled laughter and the soft click of the sliding door leaving behind a silence that felt heavier and more intentional.
Tessa remained on the stone ledge, her head still resting on Mark’s shoulder. The evening air had turned crisp, carrying the sharp scent of the cooling ocean and the lingering sweetness of toasted sugar. She should have been cold, but the warmth radiating from Mark was like a steady hum, anchoring her to the moment.
"You're remarkably quiet," Mark murmured, his voice vibrating slightly against her temple. "Is the 'Protective Older Sister' finally off the clock?"
Tessa let out a small, tired breath, her eyes tracing the way the moonlight hit the white foam of the retreating tide. "She's trying to be. It’s a hard habit to break. I keep feeling like I should go inside and make sure Athena didn't leave the stove on or that Caleb didn't forget to lock the back door."
"They're fine, Tess," he said softly. He shifted his weight, and for a second, she thought he was going to stand up and end the night. Instead, he reached down, his fingers finding hers where they rested on the rough stone.
He didn't grab her hand. He didn't pull. He simply laid his palm over the back of hers, a slow, deliberate weight that made the world around them fall away.
Tessa’s breath hitched. She didn't move. She didn't even blink. She just focused on the sensation of his skin against hers—warm, slightly calloused from his hobbies, and incredibly steady.
Slowly, almost tentatively, Mark began to slide his hand further, his fingers slipping into the gaps between hers. It was an agonizingly slow movement, a silent question asked in the space between heartbeats. Tessa responded by slightly spreading her fingers, allowing him to lace them together.
When their palms finally met, fully and flush, she felt a jolt that went deeper than any caffeine high. It wasn't the frantic, messy energy of a first kiss. It was something more intimate—a grounding connection that felt like a promise that would not break.
He squeezed her hand gently, his thumb beginning a slow, rhythmic graze against the side of her index finger.
"Step five," he whispered, his head leaning down so his breath fanned against her cheek.
Tessa turned her head just an inch, her nose brushing against the soft fabric of his hoodie. They were so close she could see the golden flecks in his blue eyes, even in the dim light. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat that she was sure he could feel through their joined hands.
"What's... what's step five?" she asked, her voice sounding like it belonged to someone else.
"Not rushing," he softly said.
He lifted their joined hands, resting them on his knee so he could look at the way their fingers were entwined. He traced the line of her knuckles with his free hand, his touch light as a feather, yet it felt like he was branding her. He spent a long time just looking at her hand in his, as if he were memorizing the shape of it.
Tessa watched him, her throat tight. She had spent so much of her life being the one who held everything together, the one who gripped tightly so nothing would fall. But with Mark, the hold was different. It wasn't a grip; it was a rest.
He turned her hand over, tracing the lines of her palm with the tip of his finger. The sensation sent shivers racing up her arm, making her toes curl in her flip-flops. It was an electric, magnetic pull that drew her toward him, making the few inches of air between their faces feel like miles.
She looked at his mouth—the slight curve of his lips, the way they were parted just a fraction. He looked at hers, his gaze dropping and lingering. The air was thick with the possibility of a kiss, a gravity so strong it felt inevitable.
It just felt right.
But Mark didn't move forward. Instead, he brought her hand up to his face, resting his cheek against the back of it. He closed his eyes, taking a deep, steadying breath, simply holding her there.
Tessa felt a tear prick at the corner of her eye, though she wasn't sure why. It was the sweetness of it—the fact that he wasn't demanding anything from her. He was just being there, letting the touch linger until it felt like they were sharing the same soul.
"You have no idea," she whispered, her voice cracking.
"No idea about what?" he asked, his eyes still closed, his face pressed against her hand.
"How long I've wanted someone to just... hold my hand without needing me to lead them somewhere."
Mark opened his eyes, and the look of raw, honest affection in them was almost too much to bear. He didn't say anything. He didn't need to. He just turned his head slightly and pressed a lingering, silent kiss to the center of her palm.
He didn't move to her lips. He didn't try to escalate the moment. He just kept his mouth pressed there for a long, beautiful minute, his heartbeat thudding against her fingertips.
When he finally pulled back just enough to look at her again, their hands stayed locked together, fingers white-knuckled and desperate in their connection. The fire had died completely now, leaving them in the blue-black velvet of the night, but Tessa had never felt warmer.
"We should probably go in," she murmured, though she made no move to get up.
"Probably," Mark agreed, his thumb continuing that slow, intoxicating stroking of her hand. "In a minute. Or ten."
"Ten sounds better," Tessa decided.
They sat there in the dark, two people who had spent the whole day being "set up" by their friends, finally realizing they didn't need a script. They just needed the silence, the sea, and the weight of a hand that refused to let go. No kiss was needed—not yet. The lingering touch was a story all on its own.
"Ten is best." Tessa nodded.