She slides a hand down my arm and pulls me into her lap, holding me close, her breath hitching as she presses a kiss to the top of my head.
“You’re insane,” she mutters. “You fall off a horse, hit your head, and you’re still trying to flirt.”
I grin weakly. Brooke exhales a shaky laugh. Her eyes glint in the moonlight—soft brown rimmed with something fierce—and she presses her hand gently to my cheek.
Her red hair falls wild and free around her face, catching silver where the moonlight touches. It halos her in soft firelight, like the sky itself decided to crown her. Her cheeks are flushed with adrenaline and worry, lips parted just slightly like she can’t decide whether to kiss me or lecture me.
There’s hay stuck to her jeans, dirt smeared across one thigh, and she’s never looked moreunreal.
Her brows furrow as she searches my face, eyes flicking between mine like she’s trying to memorize every detail just in case I disappear.
“You’reglowing again,” I murmur, dazed and smiling.
Brooke shakes her head, torn between exasperated and enchanted. “God help me,” she mutters, voice low. “I really like you.”
Even with hay in my bra and dirt in my hair, I grin up at her. “I really like you too, babydoll.”
She leans in, just a breath away now. Her lips hover over mine, heat and moonlight curling around us like we’re suspended in time.
And then she kisses me.
Not with urgency, not with desperation?—
But with something deeper. Slower. Morecertain.
Her hand curves around my jaw, fingers threading through my hair like I’m something precious. Her lips brush mine first like a question—featherlight, testing, savoring—and the moment they touch, the world stops spinning. Everything narrows to the space between us.
She doesn’t devour me. Sheclaimsme. I feel as if I should never have a moment where my lips are not on hers.
The kiss builds slowly, a coaxing fire instead of a spark. Her mouth moves against mine with an ache that feels like both comfort and craving, her lips so soft I swear I could live inside this moment and never want for anything again. The warmth of her body seeps into me through every point of contact—her palm against my cheek, her chest brushing mine, her thighs tucked against the side of my hip as I lay half in her lap.
I kiss her back, dizzy but grounded, my hands sliding instinctively to her waist, pulling her just a little closer. Her breath hitches as I deepen it, my lips parting just enough to taste the hint of milkshake and adrenaline still lingering on her tongue.
And just when I think I’ll let her kiss me until the stars burn out, she pauses.
Her hand stills in my hair. Her brow furrows.
She leans back, just an inch, eyes scanning my face. And then her gaze snags on something above my temple.
Her thumb brushes through a tangled curl—pauses. I see it in her eyes before I feel it: blood.
“Jas,” she whispers, voice tight with fear.
She shifts, her body curving over mine protectively as her fingers part the strands at my hairline. I wince—just slightly—and that’s all it takes. Her whole face falls, softness replaced by careful precision.
But she doesn’t pull away. She leans back in, her lips barely grazing mine—more breath than kiss now—as she whispers into my mouth, “You’re injured. Let me take care of you.”
I nod as she pulls away and helps me sit up slowly, hands steady on my back.
“You hit your head,” she says gently, brushing a smudge of dirt off my temple. “You’re gonna have a bruise, but I don’t think you need stitches.”
Brooke still looks concerned, even as she helps me to my feet. She loops an arm around my waist like she’s not entirely convinced I won’t pass out on the walk back.
“Let’s get you inside. I’ll put the horses up.”
“I can help?—”
“You’ll do no such thing,” she cuts in, her drawl firmer than usual. “You’re not dying on my ranch, Jasmine Rivera.”
