When she finally managed a breath that wasn’t shattered, Wesley shifted carefully, easing out of her with a low groan. His hands stayed steady as he reached for the blanket at the foot of the bed, pulling it over them with a gentleness that made Maude’s throat ache. He brushed damp curls from her cheek, his thumb lingering.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured, tucking her closer, guiding her to his chest. His hand swept down her back slowly, until her muscles stopped twitching. His lips pressed against her temple.
The quiet grew between them, shaped into something almost sacred by the even thrum of his heart under her ear. “You’re a human furnace,” Maude said at last, because if she didn’t say something she’d drown in it.
“That’s my best quality.”
“Don’t get cocky.”
“Never,” he whispered, his smile curving into her hair like a secret.
He kissed her lips, feather-light, lingering as though pressing his promise into her skin. His hand smoothed over her arm, down her side, centering her bit by bit back into herself. Every motion devoted, as if he believed she was worth memorizing.
Finally, she let herself believe it, too.
Maude’s breath steadied. Her eyelids grew heavy. She tried to resist—stubborn as ever—but his warmth, his steadiness, the way his hand kept tracing quiet shapes against her skin…it was too much.
So she let go. Curled into him. Let herself be held. And slipped under.
Twenty-Four
A week vanished. Not in the way time usually dragged—barbed and heavy—but in a blur of warmth, limbs, and far too much bread.
For the first time in her life, Maude closed her shop without guilt, flipped the sign with a kind of feral delight. She let Wesley tug her across the street to his apartment above the bakery—a space warmed by ovens, layered with clutter and comfort, his presence in every corner. And she stayed.
They made love in the mornings, sunlight crawling across the low rafters. They ate until they were stuffed, Wesley pulling dish after dish from his oven like a sorcerer showing off—flatbreads dripping with honey and herbs, spiced stews that stained their mouths red, little cream-stuffed cakes that made Maude groan indecently enough to make him smirk and start kissing the sugar from her lips.
Afternoons vanished under quilts, pressed together as they readThe Verdant Trialsaloud. He took the heroic voices, overdramatic and booming, while she deadpanned through the rest until they were both laughing so hard they had to stop. When the plot turned devastating—as the series always did—they read quieter,their shoulders pressed tight together, her chest aching in a way that had nothing to do with fiction.
Then, inevitably, he’d set the book aside and touch her like she was a page he couldn’t stop rereading.
Halfway through the week, Grim found them, yowling at the window as if to remind Maude she had responsibilities beyond being scandalously adored. Wesley muttered about “privacy contracts” with cats but opened the window anyway. The beast sauntered in, curled on Maude’s chest like a stone idol, and refused to leave. When Wesley tried to evict him—twice—he retaliated by ripping his claws into a pillow. They reached an uneasy truce.
Oli and Selene checked in once, peering through the bakery like nosy parents. Selene left a basket of fruit on the step. Oli winked so hard Maude considered cursing him with permanent eyelid spasms. Then, mercifully, they vanished again. By the seventh day, even Maude had to admit civilization probably required their reentry before their shops crumbled. They lay tangled, the room hot with candlelight and breath, bodies slick with sweat from the latest round of trying to undo each other in increasingly inventive ways.
That was when Wesley whispered it.
“I—fuck, Maude—I love you.”
It slipped out between one breathless motion and another, his cheek pressed to her shoulder, voice cracked with effort and heat.
She froze.
He froze.
His face went scarlet, red climbing his neck so fast that Maude half-wondered if she’d accidentally cursed him.
“It’s okay,” she said quickly, swiping a hand over his burning cheek. “That happens sometimes during sex. I know you didn’t mean it.”
He dropped his forehead to hers, eyes squeezed shut. Then, with a gentleness that made her throat close, he said, “No. I meant it. I’m in love with you, Maude.”
The world narrowed.
He kissed her nose, her temple, her jaw—punctuation marks to every memory. “Since the moment you called me a bakery bastard. Since you scowled at me across that cursed counter and refused to let me charm you. Since you stood in the square with everyone against you and didn’t bend. Every minute I’ve spent with you, it’s only gotten worse—or better. Both. I don’t care how short it’s been. I don’t care if it’s mad. I’m crazy about you.”
Her eyes burned. Tears slid hot and unstoppable, cutting down her cheeks.
“I love you,” he whispered again, forehead pressed to hers. “And don’t you dare try to convince me otherwise.”
