“No,” I admit. “But I want to be.”
Something flickers in his gaze—hope, fear, hunger.
And then, because fate loves irony, Holt yells from somewhere behind us, “Yo, Crew! The cider tent’s flooding again!”
Crew groans, forehead pressing lightly to mine as if he can will the interruption away. “I swear this town has bad timing.”
“Maybe it’s saving us,” I whisper.
He smiles, small and bittersweet. “From what?”
“From doing something we can’t take back.”
He steps back, reluctant, like every inch costs him something. “Too late for that,” he murmurs, before walking toward the chaos.
I stand there, heart racing, every nerve in my body alive with the weight of everything unsaid.
Later, when the festival winds down and the lanterns flicker low, I find him again. He’s alone, sitting on the steps of the gazebo, elbows on his knees, head tipped back like he’s listening to ghosts.
I hesitate, then sit beside him.
“You okay?”
He smiles without looking at me. “Define ‘okay’.”
“Tired. Emotional. Still mildly sticky from cider.”
“Then yeah,” he says softly. “I’m okay.”
We sit in silence, the kind that doesn’t need fixing. The bay reflects the string lights like a second sky.
After a while, he says, “You make it easy to forget how hard things used to be.”
I glance at him. “That’s because I’m amazing.”
He laughs, low and rough, and it does something to me I can’t name. “That you are.”
He turns then, really looks at me, and my breath catches. His gaze drops to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “Bailey.”
“Yeah?”
He leans in, slow and sure—like he’s giving me time to stop him. I don’t.
Our noses brush. His breath hits mine. The world narrows to that single moment suspended in time—almost, but not yet.
Then a burst of fireworks lights the sky, bright and loud, and he pulls back, laughing softly.
“Even the universe has terrible timing,” he says.
“Or perfect,” I whisper, heart aching.
He looks at me for a long second, like he wants to argue, then shakes his head, smiling. His oversized hand, perfect for his job, runs along my neck and collarbone as if he’s measuring my pulse. “Good night, Bailey.”
“Good night, Crew.”
He leaves before I can say what I really mean.
That maybe I’m tired of waiting. That I’m already his.
