He laughs under his breath, but it fades as he reaches out and brushes a hand against my elbow. “Watch your step.”
The narrow path is slick, the stones glistening like they’ve been polished with moonlight. His touch is steady, casual, protective, and it sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the cool air.
We follow the trail as it curves into a garden that looks stolen from a fairy tale. The roar of the waterfall quiets behind us, replaced by the soft rustle of leaves and the sigh of a breeze that smells of sea salt and summer flowers.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, reaching out to trail my fingers along the velvety petals of a white rose the size of my palm. The bloom is soft and cool, and for a second, everything else slips away.
“What’s it like? Where you’re living?”
He’s watching me. I can feel it before I look up. “You probably know better than I do. You’ve spent more time flying up there for work than I ever spent living there.”
His lips twitch. “Still. I want to hear it from you.”
I hesitate, but only for a beat. “It never felt like home. Not really.”
I glance over at him, expecting him to say something smug or teasing, but he just waits.
“I get why you don’t want to leave South Carolina,” I say softly. “I was itching to get out. I thought if I justgot far enough away—got somewhere shiny, somewhere impressive—then I’d…become someone else. Someone more.”
I exhale through my nose, eyes fixed on a cluster of pale blue blossoms at my feet.
“I was supposed to love the city. Everyone does, right? I got out of the sticks and landed somewhere with rooftop views and twenty-four-hour everything and noise that never lets up. It’s what people dream about.” My voice hitches, a little laugh slipping out. “But I never stopped feeling like a visitor. Like I was just borrowing someone else’s life for a while.”
I don’t look at him when I add, “And you know how that turned out.”
The silence stretches. Not heavy, exactly. But full.
“Honestly, if we’d been…different, I might not have left.”
The words hang there, raw and too honest. My chest tightens. I didn’t plan to say that part. But it’s the truth.
And it’s the first time I’ve said it out loud.
A long, aching beat passes. His eyes are locked on mine, and the weight of it feels like standing on a precipice.
I’ve never spoken to him like this. Never been vulnerable without expecting him to twist it, spin it, use it for a pitch or a photo op or a campaign about how relatable we are. But this Alder, he listens.
And that’s the most dangerous thing of all.
“Mackenzie’s convinced that if I asked, you’d buy some ridiculous high-rise in Manhattan and I’d never have to leave.”
He’s still silent, still listening.
The vulnerability makes my pulse stutter, so I take a right turn, desperate to pull myself back into safer waters.
“Being dropped into a place like this has to feel at least a little familiar. You’re used to walking into a mess and taking control.”
He hesitates. His eyes flick to the ground, and for a second, the grin falters. “It…is.”
There’s more he wants to say. I can feel it in the way his lips purse, in the pause that stretches too long. Like he’s weighing something, wondering if he should let me see past the surface.
Finally, he clears his throat, and when he speaks again, his voice is lower, careful. “I think I’ve been waiting,” he says. “Waiting for something—or someone—to show me where to go next.”
He reaches for a nearby flower—deep blue with petals like satin and snow—and gently tucks it behind my ear. His fingers brush my temple. The touch is light, fleeting, but it’s enough to make my breath hitch.
“There,” he says, voice like dusk. “Perfect.”
My cheeks heat, and I quickly turn away, pretending to admire another flower. Anything that isn’t his face, his hand, his words.
