Page 88 of Summertime Hexy
“Dead?”
“Or world-famous.”
He snorts.
“But this?” I look around. “This is better. This is ours.”
He presses a kiss to my temple.
We lie there in the hammock, tangled and tired, full of smoothie and snark and maybe—just maybe—a little peace.
Because this isn’t a fairytale.
It’s a mess.
It’shome.
And it’s enough.
The hammock creaks as I shift, curling into Derek’s side just a little more.
The sun’s long gone now. In its place is a lazy dusk sky, all smudged purples and silvers. The Grove glows faintly beyond the trees—steady now, alive, like a heart that finally stopped skipping beats.
Everything’s still.
Except my brain.
Derek’s thumb brushes circles against the side of my hand. It’s such a small thing, that touch—but it makes my whole body quiet.
Which is saying a lot.
“You’re thinking too hard,” he murmurs, his voice thick with the kind of softness he saves just for me.
“You can tell?”
“You hum when your brain’s chewing on something.”
I lift my head enough to look at him. “I hum?”
“Yeah. Like a kettle with anxiety.”
“Charming.”
“Accurate.”
I nudge his chest with my nose. “It’s not bad stuff. Just... a lot.”
He nods, his other hand sliding up my back. “Yeah. It’s been a week.”
“That’s one word for it.”
He doesn’t press.
Doesn’t need to.
Because heknows.
He always knows when to give me space and when to just exist next to me until I can untangle whatever’s sitting in my chest.
