Page 82 of Hidden Echoes

"Waffles," she whispers, staring up at the top shelf. "The holy waffles."

I cross my arms, watching as she stretches onto her tiptoes, reaching for the box.

She fails.

She tries again, this time adding a little jump.

Fails again.

"You're going to break something," I comment, trying to keep my amusement in check.

"I'm not that fragile," she grumbles, attempting once more.

Rolling my eyes, I step forward, bend down, and lift her onto my shoulders without warning.

"Zane!" Mia squeaks in surprise, gripping onto me for balance.

"Now get the damn box," I mutter, ignoring the curious stares from an elderly couple at the other end of the aisle.

Mia bursts into laughter before triumphantly grabbing the box of waffles and holding it high like she’s won a trophy. "I did it!"

"Great. Now come down."

"Wait," she says, still perched on my shoulders. "Since I’m up here, I should check out some more stuff."

"No."

"Zane, look! There are frozen pancakes over there!"

"Mia."

"Ooh, I’ve never tried that ice cream."

"Mia, get down."

"Are those dinosaur nuggets?"

I let out a slow, heavy breath, my grip tightening around her waist as I lift her, just enough for her body to press against mine.

It’s supposed to be quick, effortless—but the second she’s against me, the mood shifts.

Her breath catches, a small, almost imperceptible sound, but I feel it. Her hands, which were braced against my shoulders, hesitate.

And then, with agonizing slowness, I lower her. Not because I have to, but because some twisted part of me wants to make her feel every second of it. Her body drags down against mine, her warmth sinking into my skin, and suddenly, the teasing, the reckless energy she always carries—it’s gone.

The humor in the room vanishes, swallowed by something heavier, something neither of us were expecting.

When her feet touch the ground, I don’t step back. My hands stay where they are, thumbs brushing the curve of her hips, and for once, she doesn’t have anything to say.

No quick remark.

No playful jab.

Just a pull—an undeniable, consuming force that neither of us can fight.

Her breath hitches, and that’s all it takes.

My mouth crashes against hers, desperate, greedy. She’s soft, impossibly soft, and the taste of her—warm, intoxicating—makes my head spin.

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