Knox eases back, gaze finding mine, that slow, crooked smile already tugging at his mouth. “The part where I’m in love with you?”
“Mm-hmm. That one.”
And when he says it again, slower, between kisses, I feel it everywhere I’ve been aching. In the cracks of my healing heart, in all the places I told myself were sealed up for good, and even in the part of me that dared to hope this wasn’t just summer.
I open my mouth to speak, but he beats me to it.
“Baby, you don’t have to say anything.” He brushes his knuckles along my cheek. “I don’t expect you to, especially with our no-falling rule. Not unless you’re ready.”
The thing is, Imightbe.
Which makes me want to leap out of my skin because if I say it out loud, this becomes real. And the second he gives me that out, doesn’t pressure, doesn’t expect, I fall just a little harder.
He shifts, rising from the bed in one fluid motion. Moonlight brushes his bare back, his firm ass, casting soft shadows over muscles that have looked hand-carved since the day I laid eyeson him. He turns, arm outstretched, and offers his hand to me, palm up, waiting.
“C’mon.” His smile turns wicked. “Let’s take our ritual before-bed shower now. Together.”
Already grinning, I grab his hand. “Okay. But if it turns into shower sexlike always, we’d better stay quiet. I’m not explaining your sexual stamina to your grandmother.”
Early the next morning, I wake to the scent of fresh coffee and something buttery wafting up the stairs.
For a second, I forget where I am. Then I shift, still wrapped in the curve of his body, his arm draped around my waist, warm and heavy.
Knox lies close behind me, breath warm against my hair. I twist just enough to catch a glimpse of his face. It’s unfair how beautiful he is when he’s not even trying.
And then I remember last night—what he said,howhe said it, and the grace he gave me when I didn’t say it back.
My hero.
I press a kiss to his cheek and slip out of bed, tugging on the oversized shirt he all but ripped off me last night.
Downstairs, the kitchen smells like fruity pancakes and sausage.
Hazel’s already moving around in her house shoes, flipping pancakes onto a floral plate.
She looks up when I walk in. “Morning, sweetheart. You sleep okay?”
I nod, tucking my hair behind one ear. “Better than okay. It smells amazing in here.”
“Appleberry pancakes,” she tells me, like it’s a family recipe and a secret she’s willing to share. “We’re heading out soon to pick up Sy from the hospital. He’s finally being discharged, though I’m sure he gave the nurses hell about keeping him overnight.” She flips the pancake with flair. “Fair warning: pain meds and the restrictions they put him on have turned him into a full-on grouch.”
“Noted.” A giggle bubbles free. “I’ll keep all sarcastic comments to a minimum.”
She smiles knowingly and hands me a warm plate, along with a small bottle of Everett Hill Reserve syrup, the fruity scent rising with the steam. “Eat. You’ll need it. Claire just went up for her shower. Knox can drive us once he’s up.”
Right on cue, I hear footsteps coming downstairs. Knox treks into the kitchen, shirtless, hair a mess, stretching with a wince and a groan that shoots straight to my core.
Our eyes lock, and an easy, private smile pulls at his lips like we have a thousand secrets between us.
Maybe we do.
“Morning,” he says, eyes still groggy with sleep.
And somehow, even after last night, aftereverything, I still feel like I’m teetering on the edge of something huge. His L-word confession didn’t calm the storm. It shifted the surge my way.
The ride from the hospital back to Knox’s grandparents’ house shouldn’t feel familiar, but it does. Left at the church with the green steeple, then the curved road that dips past the maple grove. Maybe it’s the scenery. All that Vermont charm tucked into sagging porches and crooked mailboxes.
Knox taps the turn signal as we pass the church, and I sink deeper into my seat, lulled by the easy conversation between him, his grandparents, and his mom. There’s something so effortless about their rhythm, comfort layered in old stories and dry humor. It makes me miss my dad more than I care to admit. Maybe this is a sign that I should actually call him. I owe my dad more than a string of half-assed texts typed out between distractions, especially considering he’s lined up a job for me and a fancy apartment, too.
