Page 31 of The Forbidden Summer
My hand comes up slowly, and I brush the sticky marshmallow from the corner of his mouth with my thumb. I should stop there. But I don’t.
I slide my thumb down along his jaw, achingly slow. His eyes don’t leave mine. And then, finally,finally, I kiss him.
It starts carefully, like we’re both testing the heat of it, making sure we won’t burn. But the second his lips part and I taste smoke and sugar and a tiny sound he didn’t mean to make, it’s over.
His hand finds the back of my neck and he pulls me in closer. I swing one leg over his lap without thinking, just needing more of him, all of him. The fire crackles behind us like it’s cheering us on.
The kiss deepens, messy and sweet, our mouths sticky with marshmallow and want.
When we finally pull back, we’re breathless. Père looks at me like I’m the whole damn summer.
“You got it on me again,” he murmurs.
“What, the marshmallow?”
“No.You.”
My heart stutters. And then he kisses me again, like he’s not afraid anymore. Like this is the part he won’t regret.
This kiss is slower, more self-assured. More sure ofus. Andas his lips move over mine, I can’t help but think about yesterday.
The rain. God, that rain.
It came out of nowhere, slicing through the trees like glass shards. Cold enough to steal your breath, soaking us down to the bone in seconds. And then, just like that, he kissed me.
Hard. Desperate. Like he didn’t know if he’d ever get the chance again. One of those passionate movie kisses. My clothes stuck to my skin. His hands were shaking. The kiss was all teeth and heat and hunger, like we were burning up from the inside out, trying to outrun the storm.
It wasn’t pretty. It wasraw.
Tonight isn’t that.
Tonight is firelight flickering across his face while he leans in like I’m something to savor.
It’s sticky-sweet lips and the soft pull of my hair where his fingers tangle.
It’s warmth, not urgency. It’s being chosen, not chased.
Tonight, we don’t crash into each other. Wemelt.
And I realize, as his thumb grazes my jaw, that yesterday’s kiss saiddon’t let me go.
But this one?
This one saysI’m not going anywhere.
Van
We’re curled up on the old couch in the cabin, a letter from Harold and Elliot open between us. It’s yellowed with time, the ink soft at the edges, the folds worn like it’s been read a hundred times. Maybe it has.
Père reads aloud, his voice low, almost reverent.
“It wasn’t fireworks, not at first. It was smaller than that. Quieter. I just remember thinking, ‘Oh. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life withoutthis person.’ I always feel like the best version of myself around you.”
He stops reading. The stillness after the letter is heavy—like the air’s holding its breath. I glance at him, watching the firelight play across his face.
“So?”
He looks at me, already defensive. “What? No.”
