Page 49 of Kellan & Emmett
And that was enough. For now.
June 18
I’ve written Emmett’s name in hundreds of pages since I was a boy. Tonight, I don’t have to write it to make it real.
Tonight, I was with him. My first time with a man—and it wasn’t strange. It felt like the most natural thing in the world, like something I’d been waiting for all my life.
I told him I’d never done this before, and he didn’t flinch. He just held me steady, and in that steadiness, I finally let myself be honest.
I. Am. Gay.
There. I wrote it. The words look strange on the page, like they belong to someone braver than me. My hand’s still shaking, but I can’t take it back. And I don’t want to.
I’ve known it in pieces for years.
And now I want more—not only more of Emmett, but more of myself. More nights where I don’t pretend. More mornings where I don’t wake up choking on silence.
For the first time in decades, I can say it and not feel crushed under the weight of it. I am gay. And I want him.
—K
Chapter 26
Kellan
The sun sat high enough to bake the back of my neck, sweat slipping down between my shoulder blades. The gardenias were in bloom, heavy and sweet in the air, almost too much, but Emmett knelt in it like he belonged there. Hands in the dirt, shirt damp at the collar, forearms streaked with soil. I’d seen him behind the inn counter a hundred times now, sleeves rolled neat,hair brushed back, polite smile for guests. But here… here he was rooted.
“I don’t get how you make it look easy,” I said, fumbling with a stubborn weed that seemed more attached to the earth than I was. “Every plant I’ve ever owned died on me.”
“That’s because you treated them like mascots instead of living things,” he said, smirking sideways at me. He reached over, plucked the weed out with two fingers, flicked it aside. “It’s patience more than anything. Plants’ll tell you what they need if you pay attention.”
I huffed, wiping my forehead with the back of my arm. “Never figured you for a gardener in school. You weren’t exactly the—”
“The standout?” His voice cut in, gentle but sure. “I wasn’t. Not at anything. Not books, not sports. Not music, not art. Cooking—don’t even get me started. All I had was this.” He patted the soil, quiet for a beat. “This and a dream to run something of my own one day. Miss Cole let me hang around, called it helping, but really we were just keeping each other company.”
His tone had softened, and I caught the way his thumb lingered in the dirt, stroking the earth like it still held her in it. My chest pulled tight. I’d left, chasing a scholarship, chasing an idea of who I was supposed to be. And here he’d been, finding roots without me.
“You stayed,” I said. It came out heavier than I meant.
“I stayed.” He glanced up, green eyes locking with mine. “And when she passed, she left me this place. Figured I’d sell it at first. But…” He shrugged, smile faint. “The porch still sang when the wind hit it. The walls still smelled like cinnamon. Couldn’t let it go.”
Something unsteady stirred in me—guilt, sure, but something warmer too. Like maybe I could stay now. Like maybe it wasn’t too late.
I shifted, digging my fingers into the dirt again to ground myself, but Emmett leaned just close enough that his breath grazed my ear. “Don’t worry, Coach. You’re better at other kinds of… growth.”
Heat rushed up my neck before my brain caught up to the words. I shot him a look, but his grin was pure mischief, eyes flicking to my flushed face.
“Called it,” he said, smug as anything.
I grunted, ducking back to the row of plants, but the blush burned hot and relentless.
The afternoon wore on, the two of us working in rhythm—pulling weeds, patting down soil, trading small barbs that circled closer and closer to flirting. By the time Emmett pushed back on his heels and dusted his palms, the shadows had stretched long across the garden beds.
“Enough dirt for one day,” he said, standing and offering me a hand up. “I’m taking you somewhere.”
“Somewhere?” I raised a brow, brushing soil off my knees.
“You’ll see.” He smirked, already turning toward the house.
