Page 177 of Seven Lost Summers
“You’ve always burned bright to me. Even in the dark. Especially in the dark.”
I can barely breathe. A lump swells in my throat that won’t go down, and something stings behind my eyes I don’t want to admit to.
Because damn it, I’ve waited my whole fucking life to hear I’m not some mess people tolerate. Like someone finally sees through all the noise and still wants what’s left.
I don’t breathe.
I don’t blink.
“You are the storm,” she says. “But you’re also the calm after. And I love you, Theo. I love you in every form you’ve ever taken. The loud. The quiet. The chaos. All of you.”
Then she surges forward and kisses me.
Not soft.
Not sweet.
It’s a fucking collision—mouths crashing, breath stolen, her hands in my hair like she needs to anchor herself to something real. I stagger, grabbing her waist with one hand and the back of her neck with the other, kissing her back like I’ve been starving for this.
Because I fucking have.
I lose the world in her.
Everything blurs except for her mouth on mine, her body pressed close, and the way my chest aches from trying to hold this moment still.
By the time she pulls back, my lungs are useless.
My knees are a mess. And my heart… It’s fucking shattered in all the right places.
I blink, dazed. “Jesus, Quinn… if that’s what loving me looks like, I’m gonna need a defibrillator and a helmet.”
Breathless, she laughs, her forehead resting against mine, and it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.
A knock sounds at the door.
Quinn pulls back, her fingers still tangled in my hair, lips swollen, eyes bright and wrecked in the most beautiful way. She doesn’t move for a second, still breathing hard, still pressed to me like she’s not ready to let go.
“That’ll be Nate,” she whispers.
I groan, dragging my hands down her waist and muttering, “His timing’s always shit.”
She laughs under her breath and slips from my arms. I watch her cross the room, barefoot, her shirt slipping off one shoulder, hair a fucking mess from my hands. I’ve never seen anything more perfect.
She opens the door, and Nate is standing in the hallway like some cocky bastard sent to interrupt the best moment of my life.
He doesn’t say a word at first. Just steps inside, quiet and watchful, his eyes flicking between me and Quinn like he’s trying to figure out if I have told her what we came here to say.
A pizza box in one hand, a six-pack of beer in the other, and that raised eyebrow I’ve known for years. The look he gives when I’ve done something reckless.
Which, to be fair, is often.
I meet his stare and nod once.
“Yeah,” I say. “I fucking told her, man.”
Something shifts in his face. Pride. The kind of silent Nate approval that speaks louder than any bullshit words ever could.
He places the pizzas and beer on the kitchen countertop. He goes to lift the lid to grab a slice, but before he does, Quinn’s hand settles gently over his.
