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Leather. Pine. And something warmer clung to his skin—like bonfires and promises you weren’t sure he could keep, but desperately hoped he would.

My breath caught.

“Wildflowers?” I asked, voice softer than I meant it to be.

He shrugged like it was nothing, but his eyes told me it wasn’t.

“They reminded me of you,” he said.

A stupid flutter woke up in my chest.

I reached out to take them, our fingers brushing for a second too long. Sparks. Goosebumps. The kind of reaction you couldn’t fake. The kind you didn’t get from buttoned-up finance bros with shiny teeth and no soul.

“Thank you,” I said, swallowing hard.

He didn’t answer.

He just leaned in and kissed my cheek—slow, deliberate, just behind the bone. A breath of a touch. Just long enough for me to feel the heat of his lips and the scrape of his stubble.

Just long enough to short-circuit my entire nervous system.

Goosebumps erupted down my arms. My knees went soft. My breath hitched.

He pulled back only a hair, and his voice was a low rumble in my ear. “You look beautiful, Bella.”

I stood there like an idiot, clutching flowers like they were oxygen, cheeks on fire and heart pounding like I’d run a mile barefoot.

“You ready?” he asked, his lips curving slightly. Like he knewexactlywhat he’d done to me.

I nodded—too fast, too flustered—and stepped outside, letting the door click shut behind me.

And as we walked toward his truck, his hand resting on the small of my back, I knew one thing for sure.

Whatever happened tonight… I wasn’t going to forget it.

The road curved through the trees until it opened to a clearing—no, ameadow. Like something from a dream. Maybe a movie. Definitely not real life.

I gasped.

Twinkle lights had been strung between the trees, glowing like captured fireflies. A small table stood in the center, draped with a checkered cloth. Two mismatched chairs. An old oil lamp flickered in the center, casting golden light over porcelain plates and silver cutlery. A camping rug was laid beneath the table, soft underfoot, and nearby a canoe floated on the glassy lake, lit by flickering lanterns. The water shimmered, reflections dancing like stars had come down to wade.

A few floating candles bobbed at the shore, scenting the air with something sweet and floral. Somewhere in the trees, a fiddle played from a speaker—something old and slow, full of longing.

I turned to Logan, stunned.

He looked almost sheepish.Almost.

“I didn’t forget anything,” he said. “Except the cold. That one’s on me.”

Before I could respond, he walked to his truck, grabbing his kutte from the seat. The worn leather smelled of him.

Mountain air.

Pine.

Diesel and woodsmoke.

Without a word, he draped it over my shoulders.