I should move. I should say something cutting. I should remind myself of every reason why this man and I could never work.
But I don't.
Because in this moment—with the storm raging outside, with the smell of wet earth and pine, with his eyes locked on mine like I'm something precious and wild and worth pursuing—I feel something I haven't let myself feel in a long time.
Safe.
Seen.
Wanted.
And when his hand brushes mine?
I don't pull away.
Four
Weston
Herhandbrushesmine.
Soft. Warm. Intentional.
For a second, I stop breathing, afraid that any movement might shatter this moment, might remind her of all the reasons she's spent two years avoiding being alone with me.
Rain drums against the shelter roof in a steady rhythm, the scent of wet leaves and distant lightning thick in the air. Outside, the world is chaos—wind bending trees, water turning the trail to mud—but here, in this small wooden shelter, there's only us. Junie doesn't move away. She just looks up at me with those big, stubborn eyes like she's daring me to make the next move.
I've waited two damn years for this.
"Junie…" My voice is low, hoarse. "There's a lot I should've said back then."
"You mean before or after you slapped cuffs on me?" There's challenge in her voice, but something else too—a vulnerability that wasn't there before.
"I didn't want to arrest you," I say, and I mean every word. "I hated it."
"Didn't stop you," she says, but her tone's quieter now, less accusatory.
"I was doing my job. Following orders. And afterward…" I pause, rub a hand along the back of my neck where tension always settles when I'm struggling for words. "I didn't know how to talk to you. Didn't think you'd listen. Hell, maybe I didn't deserve for you to."
Her lips press together, creating that little line of concentration between her brows that appears when she's puzzling something out. She doesn't respond.
Rain continues to pound the roof, creating a cocoon of sound around us. In the distance, lightning illuminates the grove of saplings for a brief, electric moment. The memory tree grove.Hertrees, in a way.
I step closer, slow and careful, until there's barely a breath between us. The space between us crackles louder than the storm, charged with two years of sidelong glances and careful distance.
"You should know something," I say, voice rough. "I didn't stop thinking about you. Not one damn day."
A flash of surprise crosses her face, quickly replaced by something harder to read. Junie swallows, eyes flicking to my mouth, then back to my eyes. Her lashes are wet, and so is her sweater, clinging to every curve like a second skin. A droplet of rain slides from her hair down her neck, disappearing beneathher collar, and I have to clench my fists to keep from tracing its path with my fingertips.
"I thought you hated me," she whispers, and the vulnerability in those five words nearly breaks me.
I shake my head slowly, deliberately, holding her gaze. "I've never hated you. I've just wanted you so bad it felt like punishment."
For a second, everything stills. Even the rain seems to pause between heartbeats.
Then she grabs the front of my shirt and pulls.
And I'm gone.
