Page 82 of Summertime Hexy
Then his voice, quiet. “Why?”
I take a breath.
Look up at him, lit by the porch lantern’s glow. His eyes aren’t glowing. They’re just… soft. Human. Tired and strong and full of things I still don’t know how to carry.
And I tell him.
“Because for the first time in my life,” I say, voice shaking just a little, “I’m not searching. I’m building.”
His brow furrows, but he doesn’t look away.
“I’ve been running since I was fifteen,” I continue. “From schools, from covens, from who people thought I should be. Even from my own damn magic.”
I reach for him. He lets me.
I run my fingers along the inside of his wrist—where his pulse beats steady.
“But here?” I whisper. “With you? I’m not running. I’m rooting. That’s scarier. And better.”
He’s silent for a long time.
Then he steps closer, cups my cheek in one rough, warm hand.
His thumb brushes a tear I didn’t realize was there.
“You terrify me,” he murmurs.
I laugh, thick and wet. “Good. Keeps things spicy.”
He huffs a breath and leans in.
The kiss is soft.
Not explosive. Not desperate.
Justfull.
Like we’ve both been waiting for it to feel likethis.
His other hand curls at my waist, gentle but firm, drawing me closer until there’s no space left. My fingers slide up into his hair, and he shudders when I tug—just enough to make him tilt his head and deepen the kiss.
We don’t speak for a while.
Just stay wrapped up in each other, under the porch light, with the woods holding their breath.
When we finally pull back, he rests his forehead against mine.
“You’re staying.”
“I’m staying.”
“Good,” he says. “Because I just built you a bookshelf.”
I blink. “You what?”
He shrugs. “You leave chaos wherever you go. I figured your books deserved better than a floor pile.”
My heart cracks.
