Page 87 of Summertime Hexy
“Bloodfruit, resilience root, a dash of ginger, and a charm to make your muscles slightly less stabby.”
He takes it. Sips. Raises a brow.
“It’s not terrible.”
“Iknow!I’m evolving.”
He hums and wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me in for a kiss that lands somewhere between “thank you” and “I’m never letting you out of my sight.”
I melt against him, because even after all this time, every touch still zaps through me like spellfire.
“Stop being cute,” I mutter.
“Make me.”
Rude.
Hot.
I love him.
We spend the next hour checking habitat spells, re-scribing the sigils on the salamander pond, and chasing down a runawaywhisper-mole who keeps reciting my old break-up poetry from under the dirt.
“Who taught it that?” Derek asks, mildly horrified.
“I might’ve vented near its burrow last fall.”
He side-eyes me. “You rhymedbetrayalwithimpale.”
“Artistic license!”
After everything’s stabilized—and I’ve threatened the goat with therapy and Derek’s death glare—we collapse in the shared hammock strung between two glow-barked trees just behind the main enclosure. It's barely big enough for one person, let alone two full-grown magical disasters, but we make it work.
Mostly.
He grunts when I elbow his ribs trying to get comfy.
“You’re pointy,” I whine.
“You invited yourself into my side.”
“You love it.”
He doesn’t deny it.
The breeze smells like sun-warmed moss and fruit. Fireflies drift between branches overhead like lazy sparks. Somewhere, a sleepy chirping starts—probably the bug-cats in the northern pen, lulling each other to sleep with off-key lullabies.
“I like this,” I say quietly.
“The chaos?”
“The calmafterthe chaos.”
His hand finds mine.
“I do too,” he says. “It’s not what I thought life would look like.”
“Same. Thought I’d be somewhere else by now.”
