Page 89 of Summertime Hexy
I sit up slightly, straddling the hammock now with a knee on either side of him. His hands settle instinctively on my hips, thumbs stroking through the fabric of my shorts like I’m something precious.
And hell maybe I am.
“You know,” I say, “I used to think love was a kind of performance.”
He raises a brow. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Like you had to sparkle at the right moments. Be clever, but not too clever. Be easy to leave.”
His brow furrows. “Hazel?—”
“But this,” I say, voice cracking just a little, “this doesn’t feel like performance. This feels likepresence.Like showing up in the mess, and staying.”
He sits up, slowly, so we’re face to face. One hand lifts to my cheek, the pad of his thumb catching a tear I didn’t even realize had fallen.
“I don’t want the version of you that’s easy to leave,” he says. “I want the one who sets shit on fire and then tries to teach the ashes something new.”
I laugh. Snort, actually.
“Romantic,” I say.
He kisses me.
Slow.
Thorough.
The kind of kiss that feels like it has weight. Like it knowsexactlywhat it’s doing.
By the time we break apart, I’m breathless and a little dizzy.
“You’re not easy,” he says, brushing his nose against mine. “You’re extraordinary.”
My heart stutters.
Because I’m me—I whisper, “You say that now, but wait until I turn our laundry into a sentient sock monster.”
He smiles. “That already happened.”
“And youstillwant me?”
“Every version.”
And gods, Ibelievehim.
Because his hands are sure.
Because his voice is steady.
Because he’s seen every broken, glitter-streaked, spell-scorched part of me and he’s still here.
“You’re it for me,” I say, softly. “You know that, right?”
His eyes flicker with something unspoken.
“I do,” he says. “And you’re it for me.”
We kiss again, deeper this time. Slower. My fingers thread into his hair, and his hands map the shape of my back like he’s memorizing me one breath at a time.
