Just art. Light. Beauty.
I’m still mentally lecturing myself when I turn and nearly collide with a warm, solid body.
Strong hands catch my elbows.
“Easy,” Kendrick murmurs.
My breath leaves in a soft rush. “Hi.”
He looks unfairly good in jeans and a dark Henley, jacket open over broad shoulders, hair slightly messed like he ran a hand through it at least a dozen times on his way here. His cheeks are tinged with wind and cold; his eyes hold that quiet, steady heat I’m starting to recognize as his version of a greeting.
“Didn’t expect to see you this early,” he says.
“You didn’t?” I ask before I can stop myself.
He shakes his head once. “Didn’t figure you’d be up after…” His voice trails off, something unguarded flickering in his gaze. “Last night.”
My heart trips, then does a near-fatal flourish. “Yeah. That.”
His eyes drop briefly to my mouth before he clears his throat. “You, uh—want something to eat?”
I glance at a booth selling fry bread dusted with powdered sugar. “Absolutely.”
We walk that way together, the space between us small but humming, our shoulders brushing once, then twice. He buys us each a piece of fry bread even though I insist I can pay. He hands me mine with a soft grunt of acknowledgment, as if pretending he isn’t being thoughtful will disguise the fact that he’s incredibly thoughtful.
We find a spot near one of the bonfires, standing close enough for warmth but not so close we look like… whatever we’re starting to look like.
Kids run past, laughing and scattering snow. A teen hands out sparklers. The cover band starts playing something acoustic and warm, the kind of song you sway to more than dance.
I take a small bite of the fry bread. “This is amazing.”
“Gran used to make it when I was a kid,” he says, watching the flames. “Festival booth here modeled theirs on hers.”
“You had a good childhood,” I say softly. “You talk about it like it mattered.”
He looks down, the firelight flickering across his jaw. “Parts of it.”
There’s a story there—one he’s not ready to tell. I respect that.
We stand in quiet for another moment. Then I feel his gaze on me.
“You cold?” he asks.
“A little.”
He shifts, turning slightly toward me. “C’mere.”
Before I can formulate a coherent argument—or any argument—he steps closer and angles himself so I can stand in the shelter of his body. The move isn’t bold. It’s instinctive, like he didn’t think about it at all.
Heat curls low in my stomach.
The music drifts into something soft and slow, and a few couples step onto the clear space near the fire pit. Their movements sway in and out of the glow, easy and unhurried.
Kendrick’s hand brushes mine. Just a graze.
I swear the whole festival shifts around us.
He doesn’t ask. He just lightly takes my hand in his, thumb sweeping across my knuckles, and nods toward the open space.
