"You told me."
"She falls in love constantly. Passionately. Completely. And then it fades, or something better comes along, and she's gone. Every time, she swore it was forever. Every time, she meant it." Her voice was steady, but he could hear the old wounds underneath. "I grew up watching her make promises she couldn't keep. I learned very early that words are easy. That certain doesn't mean permanent."
He nodded slowly. "You learned not to trust feelings. Especially the intense ones."
"Especially those." Her eyes met his. "What I feel for you is… intense."
"I know the feeling."
"It scares me."
"I know that too."
"How do you know?" A hint of frustration crept into her voice. "How do you know this is real? That it's not just—just the grove magic, or physical chemistry, or some satyr thing I don't understand?"
He considered the question seriously, because it deserved a serious answer. She wasn't fishing for reassurance; she was genuinely asking.
"The grove magic heightens what's already there," he said carefully. "It doesn't create feelings from nothing. If there was nothing between us, the magic couldn't have affected you. As for physical chemistry…" He smiled ruefully. "I won't pretend that's not part of it. You're gorgeous, and I've wanted you since the first time you glared at me for flirting too aggressively."
She made an indignant sound. "I didn't glare."
"You absolutely glared. It was magnificent." He caught her hand, bringing it to his lips. "But that's not why I'm certain. I'm certain because of the way you challenged me about the wine selection. Because you organized our festival planning into color-coded spreadsheets. Because you stood up for yourself with your mother even though it terrified you. Because you see me—not just the flirtatious exterior, but the parts I usually keep hidden."
Her breath caught, but he held her gaze. "This isn't a whim, Marigold. This isn't physical attraction or magical influence. This is me, choosing you, with my eyes wide open. And I'll keep choosing you. Every day. For as long as you'll let me."
Tears welled in her eyes—the good kind, he thought. The overwhelmed kind.
"That's a lot of pressure," she whispered.
"Is it? I thought it was romantic."
A watery laugh escaped her. "It's terrifying."
"Terrifying can also be romantic. Very popular in Gothic novels, I'm told."
"I don't want to live in a Gothic novel. Too many drafty castles."
"Fair point. My cabin has excellent insulation."
She laughed again, more freely this time, and he relaxed a little. He pulled her closer, tucking her against him, and felt her nestle into his embrace.
"I can't promise I won't be scared," she said into his shoulder. "I can't promise I won't have moments where I want to run away."
"I know."
"I might need reassurance. A lot."
"I'll provide it. Gladly. Daily, if necessary."
"I might doubt you. Even when you don't deserve it."
"Then I'll prove myself. As many times as it takes." He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "I'm not asking for perfection, Marigold. I'm asking for a chance. One day at a time. One choice at a time."
She was quiet for a moment. Then she tilted her face up, finding his lips with her own.
The kiss started gentle—a question, an answer, a promise. But it deepened quickly, heat building between them like kindling catching flame.
"Again?" she murmured against his mouth.
