Never in her life had Lana thought she would find herself back—here.

When the invitation passed Hank's lips, all she could do was nod. She took his hand, as she had so often when he’d visited her in her dreams. Now it was warm, and solid, and bigger than she remembered. The boy she had fallen in love with ten years ago was incontrovertibly a man, and her heart trembled at the revelation.

They drifted out onto the lawn together. The other party guests were clustered close to one another in small groups all around the garden, laughing and chattering, completely engaged. Lana felt any self-consciousness at being seen with Hank slowly begin to bleed away. The hand that held hers was rough, and she wasn't certain it was tender, but it was the hand she had yearned for, desperately, for a very long time.

"Been a while," Hank mentioned. It was as if he read her thoughts. He pulled her in against him, lifting their joined hands and moving his other down to her waist. To say Lana was surprised by this would have been an understatement. After spending the evening doing their best to avoid one another, the last thing she had expected was Hank to so boldly take the lead now. "You look good."

"So do you." She had been mixing her booze that evening, something she would normally never do. She had traded her usual white wine out hours ago, when the last bottle had run out, and started drinking the much heavier beers supplied by the volunteer firefighters. It was making her limbs and tongue loose now. It was allowing her to relax into Hank's embrace, as if he was any other man who had just invited her to dance. "You look . . ."

"Different?" he supplied.

"Old."

The word caught them both off guard, and they stopped dancing for a moment.

The stricken look on Hank's normally gravely serious face proved too much to bear. Lana threw her head back and burst out laughing.

Rather than ease up now that he knew she was joking, Hank tugged her in against him—hard. "You think I'm old?" A mischievous gleam lit his eyes, more spark than she had seen the Alaska fire chief display all evening. He kept the line of his mouth firm, though. He was sending so many mixed signals, it would have been enough to make Lana's head spin—if it wasn't spinning already.

"I know you are," she said.

"You know, I always thought you were the most beautiful girl I had ever seen." He spun her, now, to a swell in the music she hadn't been expecting. "Ten years, and you're more beautiful than I remember."

She whipped back around—and ended up bracing her hands on his chest. One foot had crossed behind her in the beginnings of a stumble, but Hank steadied her. "Stop it," she breathed. She didn't know whether she was pleased or perturbed by his words.

"It's only the truth."

"You shouldn't say things like that to me."

"Why not?"

For a moment, Lana really did struggle to come up with reasons why. From the moment Hank had taken her into his arms, it felt like he had never left.

Which was absurd. Hank had left, and the damage of his leaving resonated in more hearts than her own. Lana remembered how desperately she had struggled to keep her head above water in the aftermath. Michael's death had torn her heart in two, but Hank Logan had taken one half with him when he’d disappeared. The only thing that had kept her going for a long time was Sookie. She had thrown herself into caring for Hank's younger sister, until Sookie, too, had left Lana behind.

She tried to reframe the siblings' decisions. She tried not to think of it as a referendum on herself as a person. She loved, and she’d lost. An unfocused glance over Hank's left shoulder, and she saw her dear friend Alex, recently engaged, standing with Landon, a look of sublime (though definitely inebriated) happiness plastered over her face.

Alex had loved and lost, but she had still found something worth waking up for after years of emotional hibernation.

Did Lana really have a shot, as well?

"You're going to keep me waiting for an answer?" Hank brushed a strand of hair from her temple.

His touch jolted her back to the moment. The pad of his thumb lingered, stroking the swell of her cheekbone as his bright hazel eyes bore into hers. It almost felt like he had switched off her ability to breathe.

"No. I'm . . . weighing my options carefully before I speak," she said.

"You were always careful, Lana." His tone was so low, it sent a thrill through her.

Something rose in her, an emotion she couldn't immediately identify. Was it anger? Denial? Was she drunk—and imagining things—or could Hank's words be taken for a challenge?

"I wasn't, the first time I fell for you."

And there they were: the most un-careful series of words she could imagine tumbling past her lips. She stood before him with bated breath.

Someone switched the garden lights on, and the night sky overhead erupted into twinkling, bright white bulbs suspended on a network of delicate strings.

Hank leaned in. His forehead brushed up against hers. Lana could smell the alcohol on his breath, the aroma almost unbearably sweet. If she tilted her head toward him, even a little . . . their lips might meet. She might taste the beer that Hank had been drinking.

"Sorry." She tried to mollify her statement in the aftermath. She touched a gentle hand to her forehead and winced a smile. "I've had a lot to drink. Maybe it's best if I head out." It's been good to see you, Hank, she wanted to conclude. If she was braver, she might even pull him in for a hug—just to feel his body pressed against hers one more time. It would be obvious what she was doing, but she thought it would be worth it.

But she had used up all her bravery already in the span of a single sentence. She dropped her eyes and moved to pull away from Hank.

He hung on. "Can I walk you home?"

Lana's heart jumped, and she looked at him as if she hadn't heard right. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him to repeat his question, but the intensity in his gaze told her she already knew the truth. She had heard Hank's offer correctly.

She nodded. His hand found her shoulder, and he guided her back toward the house so she could grab her purse.

She locked eyes with Sookie on their way out. Hank's sister stared, mouth agape, and didn't appear to notice that the beer she was pouring into a red Solo cup was waterfalling down the side.

Lana nodded to let her know that everything was okay; she knew what she was doing. It was just a harmless walk home.

Totally harmless.

They strolled together down Cedar Springs' main street in mutual silence. There was so much to be said—and so much that remained unsaid—between them, Lana wasn't sure where to begin.

She wasn't even sure there could be a beginning for them. They had already missed it, hadn't they? They’d had their shot.

Still, her heart couldn't help but hope.

They arrived at her house, and Lana took the first step up onto the front porch alone.

She turned and found Hank still standing in the driveway. Though the step gave her extra inches, she still stood shorter than he did. He was a towering shadow on her lawn, the phantom of her past, made manifest before her.

She wasn't ready for the evening to end, she realized. Not yet. But what more was there to say, besides—everything?

"Do you . . . want to come inside?"

"I'd like that," Hank said quietly.

Lana gave a small, shy smile in response. She turned back to the door and fished around for her keys, which took longer than she would have liked. Her brain, her fingers, weren't working properly . . . and the warm gust of Hank's breath on the back of her neck made finding the dratted keys practically impossible. She wasn't sure how close he was standing, and she didn't dare turn to look. She finally located her house key, pulled it out with a jangle from the rest of the keys on the ring, and unlocked the door.

She hadn't thought to leave the light on. She could feel herself listing sideways in the dark as she tried to toe off her heels and hit the light switch.

She failed at both and couldn't help the giggle that escaped her. Her laugh escalated to the point that she thought she might actually fall down in her own foyer.

A pair of steadying hands caught her before gravity won the fight. "Look at you." Hank's own laugh was shaky. "How did you make it all the way home in this state?"

"Because of you!" Lana planted her hands against his chest—but it would have taken more force to shove him away. The man was a rock.

Her hands suddenly seemed to gain a mind of their own; they stayed cemented to him, then dragged lower—lightly, tentatively. His abs felt like iron beneath his shirt. There were no soft, pliable spots, no give. His body was as unyielding as the man himself.

She remembered, then, who this was. This was Hank Logan, the man who had left her ten years ago without a backward glance. And she was Lana Sweet, the spurned first love.

It wasn't right to touch him—not anymore. She removed her hands from him.

Or at least, she tried to.

Hank's fingers circled her wrists. She glanced up, mouth parted in a half-gasp of surprise. His face hovered above her. She closed her eyes, willing it to be closer. Willing him to be closer.

And she felt it. The brush of Hank's lips against her own. It wasn't just her imagination, this time. The firm, warm press of his mouth was solid and real. It grounded her. For a split second, it gave Lana gravity and balance. She realized, with perfect clarity, that Hank was kissing her. The hands on her waist moved to her back as he wrapped her in his arms.

She pressed forward, suddenly, with an aggression she hadn't known she was capable of. She knew it surprised Hank, too, because he staggered a step back, and she heard his shoulder hit the door.

He didn't seem to mind, however, or even notice the collision. His arms tightened around her. His strength was incredible. To think this was the same boy she’d loved so fiercely . . .

In that moment, she could believe in Hank's sudden ferocity. He shoved his mouth against hers, and Lana found herself on the defensive once more. His hot tongue tangled with her own, and his hands—her hands—were everywhere. They pulled at hair, caught in clothes, and occasionally struck out to catch their bodies against the wall or shove an obstacle aside as they fumbled toward the bedroom.

No cautionary thoughts entered her mind. She knew she should force them both to stop, to take a pause to breathe—but there was no breath left in her. Hank stole it with every kiss.

A whirlwind of shed clothing heralded their arrival on her bed. He pulled her dress up over her body. Lana gasped at how quickly he worked. The speed of all that was happening was completely disorienting. She wanted to hold onto every second—but if she held too hard, would the moment disperse like a fistful of feathers in a hurricane?

If so, she wanted the hurricane.

Hank's square, sturdy fingers were surprisingly nimble as they unfastened the clasp of her bra. If it had been up to Lana in that moment, she would have wrenched it off herself . . . and she usually took such care with the things that were hers!

Clothes had suddenly become the last barrier between them, and with every other wall stripped away, she needed them gone.

She gasped as Hank lowered her in one swift movement. His chest collided with hers, and the hot plane of his naked skin was a revelation against her newly-bared breasts. It had been so long since she’d felt another's weight settle atop her own.

There was nothing gentle or hesitant about the way Hank pressed himself against her now. It was as if he was reclaiming his rightful place as the person in her bed. Lana, at least, felt that this was true with all her being.

And the way Hank took charge of the proceedings, it was clear he felt the same. Lana moaned and wriggled beneath him as he trailed kisses down her neck. He made a necklace of them around her clavicle, licking and nipping her sensitive skin until she thought she would come undone. How wonderful—and how impossibly unfair—that all the little tricks he had learned on her years ago were completely at his disposal now. He deserved to work more for it, didn't he? After what he had done to her . . .

But Lana was more immediately concerned with what he was doing to her now. His fingers flared along her waist, more intimately exploring her womanly swells. So there was a learning curve, after all, and maybe it was a literal one.

Her own hands explored the clenched muscles of his chest, trailing across his wide pectorals and spilling touches down toward his abs. A trail of curls led her curious fingers lower, lower, until she found what she was looking for.

Considering its size, it wasn't hard to find at all.

"Lana." Hank moaned her name.

And there it came again: that sinking in her stomach, that sudden alarm that all this might end with a single word.

Like hell she was going to let it be her own name. Lana squeezed, and his cock pulsed in response. Her hips collided with his, and he thrust his need between them, breathing raggedly. Her fingers worked him. There was no more time to be shy. She needed this, now, and her yearning was as all-consuming as his own.

He grabbed her waist and positioned her beneath him. Lana writhed, making faint, keening noises. His fingers pressed her to stillness again. She flung her right leg over his hip and curled it around the small of his back, braced herself on the pillars of his arms, and felt his biceps clench.

He slid an inch into her, and she cried out. She threw her head back and blinked her astonishment in rapid Morse code. It had been so long, she had almost forgotten what it was like—

"Lana." He crooned her name again and touched her hair. He buried his face in the pillow beside her and surged forward.

"Hank!" she cried out. Every muscle in her body tensed at once, but he was already inside her, filling her, making her his own once more. She let out a shaky breath and relaxed back into the pillow. Her heart slammed against her ribcage as she fought to control her breathing.

In, out. In, out.

She moaned as Hank, impossibly, seemed to match her mental marching orders to herself. It was as if he understood as well as she did that their time together was stolen, and that there was no possible way to slow things now. He thrust himself between her legs, burying his full length inside her, and thrust again. The pace he dictated was as unrelenting as his hard-muscled body.

Lana rocked beneath him, digging her heel in harder to keep her position. She wanted to wrap both legs around his waist, but she couldn't seem to coordinate the maneuver. Every time her thoughts seemed to form some semblance of coherency, Hank moved inside her, and a surge of pleasure rushed through her.

"Hank," she moaned again.

"Lana."

It was as if, now reunited, they couldn't get enough of each other. Each sigh caressed the other's name; each kiss took away the air the other breathed.

She felt the intensity start to build inside her, trying in vain to fight it back. She wanted this moment with Hank to last forever, but there was no hope for it. Every forceful push of his hips rocked her harder, faster, closer.

When she orgasmed, she forgot how to breathe. She forgot her own name.

She shouted his, instead.

Hank groaned explosively. He gave a last push, and Lana felt his seed spill freely inside her. It seeped between her legs as Hank rolled off and collapsed beside her. He gathered her up in his arms and held her close enough to crush her.

Lana breathed. The moment had passed, but she hadn't lost it. They had grabbed hold of it, together, and damn the consequences.

Damn the consequences, she thought as she snuggled in close to the only man she had ever loved. I'll face them tomorrow morning, whatever they may be. But for tonight . . .

For tonight, Hank Logan was hers again.