Page 118 of Knot Their Safe Haven
"This is your first real date with a pack. Everything before was just rehearsal."
"Then what's opening night?"
"Every day from now on." I tilt her chin up. "We're going to court you so thoroughly that you forget those twenty years happened. Replace every hidden moment with public declarations. Every guilty encounter with proud claiming."
"That could take a while."
"Good thing we're patient."
"I thought patience was for people with time to waste?"
"I've got nothing but time when it comes to you."
The kiss she gives me tastes like promise and pumpkin spice, and I think: this is what healing looks like.
Not erasing the past but building something better in its ruins. Not forgetting the pain but choosing joy despite it.
"Ready to head back?" I ask when we separate. "The twins are probably buying every pumpkin in town."
"A few more minutes?" She settles back against me. "This is too perfect to end yet."
"All the minutes you want."
We stay until the lights are necessary, until the air cools enough to justify closeness, until her phone buzzes with textsfrom Alessandro wondering if we've been kidnapped by festival enthusiasts.
When we finally pack up, Polaroids tucked safely in her bag and miniature pumpkins claimed as souvenirs, she takes my hand without hesitation.
"Next time, I plan the romantic gesture," she declares.
"Deal. What did you have in mind?"
"Racing. But naked."
I nearly trip over nothing.
"That seems dangerous."
"Everything good is."
Her laugh echoes off cobblestones as we rejoin the festival chaos, and I think…
She's learning our language perfectly.
CARVED INTENTIONS
~DANTE~
The private pavilion glows with string lights and jack-o'-lanterns, our own corner of autumn paradise that Alessandro and Alexis secured with their portion of today's carefully orchestrated dates.
Fair trade—we handled location scouting while they handled logistics, and now here we are, three adults about to make absolute fools of ourselves with pumpkins and knives.
Velvet's laugh rings out again, bright and uninhibited in a way that suggests the Riesling is doing its job. She's sprawled on the blanket between Damon and me, silver hair spilling everywhere, still wearing those ridiculous pumpkin stockings that have been driving me insane all day. Her cheeks are flushed pink, eyes bright with mirth as she watches my twin butcher what was supposed to be a bat.
"Damon, that looks like a drunk butterfly had sex with a ceiling fan."
"It's abstract art," he defends, turning his pumpkin to display the massacre. "You just don't understand my vision."
"Your vision needs glasses." She reaches over, trying to salvage one wing. "Here, if you just—no wait, that made it worse."
