When she finally pulls back, her cheeks are pink, and she’s giggling in that light, reckless way that makes me want to build her a thousand stands just to see her smile.
“Two o’clock, then,” Jude says, tugging his glasses back up. “Stall’s yours. Buckets, flowers, everything.”
Her hands curl around her coffee mug like it’s a lifeline. “You’re going to make me the happiest girl in the market.”
“We’re making sure of it,” I say.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Norah
Dorian doesn’t saymuch as we pull out of the drive.
The quiet feels earned. Heavy in a good way. My body is still sore in places that make me blush when I think too hard about it, my skin extra sensitive where hands and mouths and teeth were everywhere for days.
Jude’s shirt hangs off one shoulder, soft and worn and smelling faintly like soap and sawdust. My sweater is wrapped around me more out of habit than necessity, and Dorian’s coat is draped over my lap, his warmth still caught in the lining.
I feel… full.
Not stuffed or overwhelmed. Just held together.
Dorian watches the road, one hand resting casually on his thigh, the other tapping against the door. His jaw is shadowed with stubble, his hair still a little wild from the shower.
He looks tired. He looks satisfied. He looks like someone who showed up exactly where he was needed.
I turn into town, the streets familiar again in a way that makes my chest ache. Life didn’t pause while I was cocooned in that house. It just kept moving.
Somehow, that doesn’t scare me today.
When I pull up near his place, he reaches for the handle before I’ve even fully stopped.
“You don’t have to,” he says easily. “I’ll walk the rest.”
“I can drop you at the door,” I tell him. “It’s not out of the way.”
He smirks, that knowing tilt to his mouth that makes my stomach flutter even now. “I’ll be fine.”
I sigh, but it comes out fond. I park anyway, just long enough.
He leans over and presses a kiss to my cheek. It’s gentle. Unrushed. The kind that says more than a thousand words ever could.
“Thank you,” I say, cupping his face before I can second-guess myself.
My thumb brushes over his cheekbone. His skin is warm.
Thank you for staying when it was messy.
Thank you for not flinching when I needed too much.
Thank you for touching me like I wasn’t fragile, like I was wanted, like I was safe.
Thank you for not making me choose.
Thank you for staying.
I don’t say any of that out loud. I don’t have to.
He kisses my palm, lips soft and gentle, espresso brown eyes never leaving mine. “I’ll see you at the market.”
