And for a moment, I swear I’m standing in the middle of my own miracle.
And when she looks up at me with those glittering blue eyes, soft, warm, impossibly mine, I know one thing with absolute certainty:
I’d walk through hell itself for this woman… as long as she keeps choosing me.
Summer
The scent of cocoa, cinnamon, and sugar wraps around us like a warm blanket, curling through the air and sinking into every inch of me. I cradle my steaming mug between both hands, and when our fingers brush, the tiniest spark leaps between us. I can feel the heat from him even through my gloves, solid, steady, unbearably tempting, and it makes me shiver in all the right ways.
“Try this,” he says, holding his cup toward me. I lean in, sip, and the sweetness hits my tongue while his gaze stays locked on me, those green eyes darker now, smoldering with something I can feel more than I can name.
I laugh softly, a little embarrassed by how hard he’s watching me.“Hot chocolate and churros. Doesn’t get much better than this.”
“It could,” he murmurs, leaning in closer. His voice dips, velvet and warm. He tilts my cup just slightly, just enough to let a dollop of whipped cream brush my lips. My breath hitches. Before I can react, he leans down, his mouth grazing mine and his tongue catching the cream gently. My knees nearly buckle.
“Mmm… perfect,” he whispers, his lips brushing mine afterward, the heat of him chasing the cold right off my skin. My cheeks flush, and I can feel his gaze linger, slow, consuming, burning into me until my heart beats faster than it should in the crisp winter night.
We sit on a nearby bench, churros in hand, watching the twinkling lights of the carnival reflect across the snow like tiny fallen stars. My fingers brush his again, barely a touch, but he catches them, intertwining our hands without hesitation, his thumb sliding over my knuckles like he’s memorizing the shape of me.
Every touch.
Every look.
Every quiet smile.
It’s all a spark I can’t stop chasing.
He watches me with this intensity that makes me feel stripped bare, seen in a way that’s both terrifying and disarmingly warm. Like no mask I’ve ever worn could hide a thing from him.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I whisper, teasing but breathless, needing to see the fire flare in his eyes.
“I can’t help it,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. He drags me closer until my head rests against his shoulder, his warmth enveloping me, grounding me.“I’m done for. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of looking at you, Summer.” He presses a soft kiss to the top of my head, and I melt like snow in his hands.
The drive back home is quiet, comfortable and thick with that tension that lives in the small spaces between us. Every brush of his hand against mine sends a fresh wave of warmth rolling through me, settling deep.
Finally, we pull up to the ranch. I cut the engine, and it feels like the whole world goes still, quiet, slow, suspended in this perfect little pocket of night.
“Let me walk you to the door,” he says, already pushing his door open despite the sling.
I step out, and he moves in close behind me, the cold wind biting at my cheeks while his presence wraps around me like a second coat.
“I have something for you,” he murmurs. He reaches into his pocket with his good hand and pulls out a tiny flower, pressed and delicate, and a folded note. My breath catches before I can even think. Then he leans down, pressing a soft kiss to my lips, one that’s gentle but full of promise, before placing the gifts in my hands.
I take them, speechless, and he lingers, his fingertips brushing mine just a second too long, saying everything he doesn’t in words. Then he kisses me again, slow and lingering and devastating, and my knees nearly give all over again.
When he finally lets me go, I step inside, the door clicking softly behind me. The house feels still, quiet, yet humming with the echoes of our night, like the memory of him is stitched into the air. Cinnamon and hot chocolate cling to my coat, the tiny flower and note warm in my hand, my heart still hammering from the imprint of his lips.
I walk to my window and gently pull back the curtain.
There he is.
Standing on the porch, tall and steady, his silhouette framed by the soft glow of the lanterns lining the walkway. The cold doesn’t seem to touch him; he looks carved from warmth itself, calm, and heartbreakingly solid, my chest tightens just taking him in.
His green eyes lift and find mine instantly. He raises a hand and waves, that small, perfect smile tugging at his mouth, the one that pulls me apart in the best possible way.
My fingers tremble as I unfold the note, the paper soft from being handled, and I read the words he chose for me, the ones that make my chest swell and ache all at once.
I press the note to my lips, close my eyes, and breathe in the memory of him, his heat, his scent, his soft murmurs still echoing against my skin. When I look again, he’s already heading across the field toward his ranch, the five-minute walk that somehow feels both impossibly close and impossibly far.
