The silence that follows is a living thing. Heavy. Cruel. It presses down until I realize I’m shaking.
The breath I’ve been holding stutters out of me, and suddenly I’m crying—quiet, ugly, and uncontrollable.
Wesley moves closer, his shadow falling over mine. I canfeelhis hand hover near my shoulder, but it doesn’t land, like he knows I might break if he touches me. Emmett says my name, low and careful, but it only makes the ache sharper.
I shake my head. “Please,” I whisper, the word tearing through my throat. “Just…don’t. Not right now.”
Wesley clears his throat. Emmett steps back. And I stand there—arms wrapped around myself, like that might hold me together.
Lane’s gone. The night is still. And for the first time, I let myself feel the truth of it.
This feels like the end.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
SADIE
“Areyousure?”
Wesley’s voice is low and molten, the kind of sound that slides under my skin and rewires the air around us. His thumb traces along my jaw, slow enough to make my pulse stumble.
We’re back at his spot, hidden between the hills and wildflowers that catch the dying light. The sunset spills over everything in a honeyed haze, soft and forgiving. He looks carved from the light itself, like the world built this moment just to hold him here.
The blooms sway around us, grazing against my legs like they’re in on our secret.
Wesley’s eyes hold mine, dark and searching, and for a breath, it feels like he’s asking something wordless—something that would change everything.
I can’t breathe until he moves.
When he does, it’s careful. Devotional. My hands find his chest, feeling the steady thud beneath my fingers as they dig into the fabric of his shirt. That rhythm grounds me and destroys me all at once.
I want this. I want him. I want to stop running from what’s been burning in my chest since the day I first looked at him. Even then, I knew wanting him was a terrible idea. But the thought of stopping, or waiting any longer, feels impossible.
His lips brush mine—barely there, more breath than touch—and the world folds inward. The kiss deepens, slow and careful, like we’re learning the language of each other one syllable at a time. His hands trace the curve of my spine, his touch reverent.
It’s too much and not enough.
His fingers thread through my hair, tugging gently, tilting my head back just far enough for me to see it—the flicker in his eyes, equal parts need and restraint. “Sadie…” he breathes, like my name is a warning and a prayer all at once.
“I’m sure,” I whisper. And I mean it.
Finally, his lips meet mine again, harder now, and everything narrows to the taste of him—sun, salt, and the faintest hint of illicit desire I pretend isn’t there. Our lips part and meet again and again, a soft push and pull that sets my stomach spinning.
My body arcs toward his, instinctive, magnetic, urgent. His fingers slip under my shirt, the scrape of calloused skin setting every nerve on fire. I gasp into his mouth, and he smiles against the sound, like he’s been waiting for it.
He eases me down onto the blanket beneath us, his weight braced above mine. The grass rustles and wildflowers nod around us, conspiratorial. We shouldn’t be doing this, but every inch of me is screamingyes.
“You’re mine,” he murmurs against my skin as his fingers hook beneath the hem of my top, his knuckles gliding up my ribs as he slips it over my head.
“Yours,” I breathe, pressing my body flush to his, needing every inch of contact.
His mouth finds mine again, harder now, teeth occasionally grazing, tongue tracing along my skin. My fingers wander over him, seeking reassurance, craving him, but he catches my wrists, holding me just hard enough to intensify the ache.
“I want to feel you,” I whisper, voice trembling, almost pleading. But he doesn’t let me. “Wesley,” I breathe.
He hums in response, his lips finding my throat, the hollow just beneath my jaw. Each kiss is a question, and I answer in the soft, desperate sounds that slip between my breaths.
His kiss lingers, teasing as he makes a path down me—like he’s mapping me, learning me, marking me. His mouth trails a little lower and my hands clutch at his hair, tugging as he sinks right to where I’ve been aching for him.
