Page 78 of Dreamscape Therapies

"I'm just trying to say..." He shrugs, a small smile tugging at his mouth. "I didn't mind hearing you say those words."

"I can't believe I just admitted I'm in love with you because of your beard."

I bury my face in my hands.

"If it helps," he says, his voice suddenly softer, "I love you too."

The words hit me harder than I expect.

Something warm and sharp settles behind my sternum, and my brain immediately tries to turn the feeling into something clinical: oxytocin release, dopamine spike, the neurochemical cocktail associated with pair bonding.

Knowing the science doesn't make it any less overwhelming.

I reach across the center console and rest my hand lightly on his forearm, tracing the thick veins along his skin until my fingers find his hand. He intertwines our fingers without hesitation, squeezing tightly as though letting go would require more effort than either of us is willing to make.

"I'm done pretending I don't want you in every possible way," I admit, smiling out through the windshield. "After we talk to Dany Champagne, I'm all yours."

A low, satisfied rumble rolls through his chest.

"Sounds perfect to me."

A few minutes later, Vincent slows the truck and points through the windshield.

"There it is."

Nestled between a cozy little bakery and an old used bookstore is a brick storefront with flower boxes beneath the windows. A wooden sign sways gently in the morning breeze.

Champagne Fibers.

The display windows are overflowing with colorful skeins of yarn, knitted blankets, and crocheted stuffed animals. It looks like something ripped straight out of one of Vincent's nightmares.

The door opens, and a mother leaves with two small children, all three of them smiling as they carry bags stuffed with yarn.

Vincent kills the engine, but neither of us immediately reaches for the doors. The truck ticks softly as the engine cools, and the silence settles around us again. Vincent drums his fingers against the steering wheel before finally releasing a long breath and pushing open his door.

The little brass bell above the shop door jingles when we step inside, immediately surrounding us with warmth and the sweet scent of vanilla. Shelves stretch nearly to the ceiling, packed with every color of yarn imaginable. Hand-knit blankets hang from display racks beside crocheted dragons, stuffed rabbits, scarves, hats, and enough knitted socks to keep a small village warm through winter.

Near the front window, three elderly beta women sit around a round table, knitting and chatting animatedly. One of them looks up as we enter, her eyes widening when she takes in Vincent's full height.

"My, my. Aren't we a tall drink of water?" she says with a slight Southern drawl.

Vincent stammers out a quick thank-you and immediately heads deeper into the store, his ears turning red.

I follow, biting back a smile.

We haven't made it very far when a woman steps around one of the shelves, her arms piled high with colorful yarn. The stack is so large it nearly covers her face.

"Hi! Do you need help with anything specific?"

She's about my height, with pale olive-toned skin and dark curls piled messily on top of her head. A tape measure hangs around her neck like a scarf, and a pair of knitting needles are stuck through her bun as though she forgot they were there.

She looks exactly like someone who spends her days making the world a little more beautiful.

Then she trips over nothing I can see.

The yarn spills from her arms, bright skeins tumbling across the hardwood floor. Somehow, she manages to stay upright. She adjusts her blue cat-eye glasses and gives us a sheepish smile.

"How can I help you..."