Page 64 of The Story Between Us

“I’ll make sure he eats,” Livvie said, and something about the way she said it—warm, proprietary, like she had a claim on him—turned Nate’s face warm.

Tom clapped him on the shoulder and moved on.

Nate exhaled. “The whole town’s been hoping?”

“That’s sweet.”

“That’s terrifying.” He took a drink of his beer, grateful for something to do with his hands that wasn’t reaching for her. “I didn’t think anyone noticed I existed.”

“You’ve been hiding for three years. That doesn’t mean people stopped caring.”

Her hazel eyes had turned warm, and then she reached across the table and touched his hand. Just briefly—her fingertips brushing his knuckles—but the contact sent heat racing up his arm, spreading through his chest, settling somewhere low and insistent.

“I loved the chapter,” she said. “I loved how Aldric finally made contact and realized the wall wasn’t just a barrier—it was fear. And grief. And hope. And how the combination stood in the way of everything. And how Aldric just had to ask what the other side looked like in order for the wall to disintegrate. I loved the magic of it, like it actually simply became permeable. How did you figure that out?”

He had to take a breath before he could answer. Had to remind himself that they were in public. That she was here for work. That the way his heart was racing was inappropriate and probably written all over his face.

“I don’t know. It just felt right, suddenly, to look past the wall and consider that the wall wasn’t as real as Aldric thought it was.”

“That sounds like more than just Aldric’s journey.” She arched an eyebrow.

He stared at her.

The server appeared with their flatbread, and he let out a breath.

Crusty bread, caramelized onions, and goat cheese, and she closed her eyes briefly when she took the first bite. The small sound she made, almost a hum, thrummed inside him.

They ate in silence for a moment.

Then, “What was different today? How did you…push through?”

He set down his fork. “Starting is always the hardest. Because every time I sit down, there’s this voice in my head that says…” He stopped. Shook his head.

“Says what?”

How had he gotten this far? It was too raw, too close to the bone. But she was looking at him with that expression—patient, open, like she had all the time in the world—and the words came out anyway.

“I’ve always been afraid that when Emma died, she took all the creativity with her.” His voice came out rough. “That whatever spark made the stories come alive—that was hers. And I’m just…empty. A translator without a language. A voice with nothing to say.”

Livvie was quiet for a long moment. The fireplace crackled. Someone on the porch laughed. The world kept moving, but at their table, everything had gone still.

Then she leaned forward, her eyes intent on his.

“You said that before. And I get it,” she said. “I do. But Nate—you didn’t just transcribe her ideas. You made her imagination come to life on the page. You took the raw material and turned it into something people could feel. That’s not nothing. That’s everything.”

He stared at her.

“The world-building,” she continued. “The languages, the histories, the way Thornwood feels so real you could walk through it—that’s you. Emma might have planted the seeds, but you grew the garden. You’ve been growing it for years. And now…” She gestured vaguely, her fox ring catching the light. “Now you’re just learning to plant your own seeds too.”

Something shifted in his chest. Not the crack he’d felt before—something softer. Warmer. Like sunlight hitting frozen ground after a long winter.

“You really believe that,” he said.

“I really know that.” She smiled—that warm, freckled smile that was becoming harder and harder to resist. That was making him think dangerous thoughts. That was making him want things he’d stopped letting himself want. “I’ve read the books, remember? I’ve seen your notes. I know what you’re capable of. The only one who doesn’t seem to know is you.”

He didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to hold what she was offering—this belief, this certainty, this gift.

“The chapter I wrote today,” he said slowly. “The wall being alive. That wasn’t Emma’s idea. It wasn’t in her notebooks or our old conversations. It came from…I don’t know where it came from. It just appeared.”