I don’t know what she’s going to say.
I don’t care.
I reach out, cupping her jaw gently, my thumb brushing her cheek. She leans in, breath mingling with mine, and for a single heartbeat the whole world holds still.
Then she rises onto her toes.
And I meet her halfway.
The kiss is soft at first—tentative, searching—her lips warm and sure under mine. The cold air bites at my skin, but she’s heat and closeness and something I can’t name yet, something I might not want to.
I pull back barely an inch, breathing her in. “Emma…”
She shakes her head once, quietly. “Don’t apologize.”
“I’m not,” I say, my voice rougher than before. “I’m trying to be smart.”
“Do you want me to stop?”
Not even a little.
“No.”
Her fingers curl in my jacket, and I kiss her again—deeper this time, slower, letting the moment stretch around us like the sky itself is opening.
And when I pull back, my forehead rests against hers, my heart steady but changed in a way I don’t want to look at too closely.
“You should know…” I say quietly. “I don’t do temporary very well.”
Her breath hitches just slightly. “Maybe neither do I.”
We stand there under the glowing sky, two people who absolutely should not be getting tangled up in each other, already too close to pretend it’s just a passing moment.
And I know—deep down, where truth sits heavy and clear—this is not going to stay simple.
Not for either of us.
FIVE
EMMA
I don’t know why I thought I’d sleep after what happened on the ridge.
I didn’t.
I lay awake for hours replaying it—the aurora spilling across the sky like a curtain of green fire, Kendrick’s breath warm against my cheek, the way he’d kissed me like it was something he never meant to do and something he never wanted to stop.
By morning, my heart feels too full and too unsettled for someone I barely know. Someone who keeps saying he doesn’t do temporary. Someone who shouldn’t be a complication when my whole life is on the verge of changing.
But thinking about that doesn’t stop me from curling my hair or choosing a slightly nicer sweater before walking into town for the Winter Lights Festival.
Ridge Trail or not, I’m not immune to wanting to look pretty when there’s a chance I might see him again.
The festival takes over the whole main street—string lights overhead, a few vendor booths, the smell of hot pretzels andcinnamon sugar drifting through the air. Kids dart between bonfire pits with paper lanterns; couples stroll hand in hand. A local cover band warms up on a small wooden stage, tuning guitars and laughing into the cold-bright air.
It’s sweeter and smaller than the New York festivals and street fairs I’m used to. Less curated. More earnest. Real.
I lift my camera and take a few wide shots—nothing fancy, just enough to loosen my muscles, to remind myself this is what I came here for. Not magic kisses under the aurora. Not men with strong hands and steady voices who make my chest tighten in inconvenient ways.
