Page 23 of Summertime Hexy

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“I didn’t mean to step on him,” Phoebe sniffles, clutching the limp frog to her chest. “I just—I wasn’t watching and—and?—”

“It’s not dead,” Derek says, voice low and calm, but not sharp. Never sharp with the kids.

Phoebe blinks at him.

He holds out his hands. “May I?”

She hesitates. Then nods.

He takes the frog carefully like it’s made of spun sugar and heartbreak. He mutters something too quiet for me to hear, then presses two fingers to the frog’s head.

There’s a faint glow. A pulse of something ancient and strange and somehowgentle.

The frog shudders.

Then croaks.

Phoebe gasps, loud and bright. Derek doesn’t flinch.

“See?” he says, offering the frog back. “Just stunned. Happens sometimes. No real harm done.”

Her lower lip wobbles. “You’re like… a vampire vet.”

“I don’t think that’s a thing.”

“It should be.”

She hugs him.

She hugs him.

And the truly shocking part?

He hugs her back.

Awkwardly. A little stiff. But it’s real.

He stands after a beat, brushing dirt off his knee like nothing happened.

And me?

I’m hiding behind a bush, holding my stupid chaotic heart together with metaphorical duct tape and glitter glue.

Because something in my chest does thisstupid fluttery swoopthing like we’re in the third act of a romance movie and I’ve just realized the guy I thought was emotionally constipated is secretly the softest damn person on Earth.

Which is fine.

Totally fine.

Normal.

I am not falling for him.

I amnot.

...But if I was?

This would be the moment I started.

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