Dragonfly he caught only in passing, her steps brisk, her face pale and drawn.
Overhead, the songbird was answered. A soft, tentative reply—his shy lover singing back. The call became a duet, airy and earnest, filled with sweetness and the naïve promises of hope.
In the distance, the town's hum dimmed, as if blanketed by the heat. Collin sank deeper into the grass. The sun washed over his face in a slow, forgiving hush.
He considered going home.
But the light was too warm. The silence too kind. And his limbs, too heavy.
When Collin opened his eyes, a single shaft of sunlight beamed straight across his face, forcing him to squint. He must have dozed off—though not for long; the sun hadn’t climbed far.
He inhaled slowly. The summer air was thick with the scent of wet pebbles and narcissus blooming along the lakeshore—clean, sun-warmed, alive.
A movement—
He started, then laughed softly.
Dragonfly was sitting beside him. It must have been the rustle of her skirt, the trace of her fragrance, the heat of her nearness that roused him from sleep. He turned to her, smile stretching easily across his face.
She smiled back, but the light in her eyes was muted—like a glass pane dulled by dusk. Her knees were drawn up beneath her skirt, hands resting neatly on the fabric. Only the pointed tips of her shoes showed. They leaned together against the same tree, the silence between them easy.
He let his gaze drift back toward the lake. For once, his mind wasn’t racing. No ghosts. No claws dragging him into memory. Just the hush of sun on water and Dragonfly beside him. It had been so long since they’d shared a sunset. The last time...before White Wood, before everything. Before their innocence had been cut into pieces.
“My sister is having a baby.”
He glanced at her, one brow lifting—but he said nothing. Her voice held more; she only needed space to give it shape.
After a moment, as she worried the strap of his book bag, she continued.
“My aunt’s furious. She thinks my sister should marry him. He asked, but my sister said it wasn’t out of love. That marrying out of fear or obligation would be worse than raising the child alone. Part of me is proud of her. She’s strong. But part of me—” Dragonfly’s voice broke off. Her shoulders caved inward slightly, like the world had leaned in too hard.
Collin didn’t ask her to finish. He didn’t need to. The weight on her heart was already familiar. The whispers would start soon—Bluejay’s disgrace, dissected with quiet glee behind closed doors.
He remembered the fights as a boy—defending her family’s name with fists and fury. But they weren’t children anymore, and words had become the sharper weapons. What could he do now? How could he shield her?
He said nothing. Just found her hand and wrapped it in his own, firm and warm.
She leaned in gently, resting her head on his shoulder.
“I’m so thankful for you, Collin,” she whispered. “I always feel safe with you.”
Her hair tickled his cheek, but he didn’t move. He welcomed her weight, her trust. He loved her—always had—and somewhere in her guarded heart, he knew she loved him too.
“Is that what you want?” he asked quietly. “To wait until you find someone you can love truly?”
Dragonfly turned, a half-smile curving her lips. “I want to be loved wildly,” she said. “And love him back so much I can’t breathe without him.”
His heart didn’t stutter. No jolt of panic. Just a soft ache of knowing. He had always understood this about her—that she wouldn’t settle. And he admired her for it.
The only question now was whether she could ever love himlike that.
She squeezed his hand before he could speak, her eyes already answering. “There’s too much changing,” she said softly. “Too many things I need to stay the same. For now... I need you just as you are.”
He nodded, the disappointment real—but quiet, tempered by grief. He knew she wasn't ready.
And he would keep waiting.
Because loving her wasn’t a transaction—it wasn’t something he could demand, or rush, or even fully understand. It simplywas. As constant as the tides, as patient as stone beneath weather. If she needed steadiness, he would be still. If she needed space, he would carve it out for her, even if it left an ache behind.
