“But…” The word escaped before she could weigh it properly.
At once, he stilled. He leaned back, his brows drawing together in concern. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes,” she said quickly, nodding. “It is.” She drew a breath, steadying herself. “I only…” Her cheeks warmed, color blooming without her permission. “I hope you will not think me selfish, but I should like it to be only the two of us for a while.”
The admission felt dangerously intimate. Hazel had spent years dividing herself into portions, care given here, patience spent there, affection rationed until little remained. To ask for something kept, something private, felt like stepping into unfamiliar ground.
Greyson’s gaze did not waver. He lifted a hand and tipped her chin gently upward, inviting her to meet his eyes.
“I know exactly what you mean,” he said, a slow smile touching his mouth. “I am not ready to share you yet, with anyone.”
Hazel rested her hands against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath her palms. “I have given so much of myself away,” she admitted. “I would like to keep something for us.”
“And you shall,” he replied without hesitation. “For as long as you wish.”
She leaned into him then, her forehead resting against his shoulder, as a quiet sigh left her. The ache she had carried for so long loosened its grip, replaced by something warm and fragile and wonderfully new.
For the first time in her life, Hazel understood that love did not always demand sacrifice. Sometimes, it offered shelter.
And in his arms, she allowed herself to stay.
Chapter Forty
“We may take the longer path,” Hazel said gently. “It is less uneven.”
His mother nodded, her hand resting on Greyson’s arm as they turned onto the narrower gravel walk. “You are very kind, my dear.”
They moved slowly, in the pace dictated by frailty and memory rather than urgency. The graveyard lay quiet around them, full of headstones softened by age and moss. The air was sharp with the promise of approaching winter. Wind stirred through the bare branches overhead, carrying with it the hush of leaves and the weight of things long settled.
Greyson watched them both.
Hazel walked on his mother’s other side, attentive without being intrusive. When a stronger gust swept through, Hazel stoppedat once and reached to adjust the shawl around his mother’s shoulders, tucking it more securely.
“It is very windy,” she said softly. “You should not catch a chill.”
His mother smiled at her with a warmth Greyson had not seen in years. “You fuss like a nurse.”
Hazel smiled back. “Only when it is warranted.”
It was not Hazel’s gesture alone that threatened to undo him. It was the ease with which she offered care, not out of duty or habit, but out of quiet affection. Hazel did not hover. She simply noticed and acted.
The wind lifted Hazel’s curls, then brushed color into her cheeks. She laughed softly at something his mother said, and the sound, which was so gentle and so alive, echoed strangely in a place devoted to remembrance.
They reached a familiar headstone then. Greyson watched as his mother slowed. She moved toward the headstone as though drawn by something older than memory, her hand lifting before she seemed aware of it. Her fingers trembled as they brushed the carved letters of Damian’s name, tracing them with a tenderness that made Greyson’s throat tighten painfully.
For a moment, she said nothing.
Greyson stepped closer at once, instinct guiding him to her side. Hazel joined them just as quietly, her presence a steady warmth rather than an intrusion. Greyson felt her there without even needing to look.
“We may sit, if you wish,” Hazel suggested gently. “The bench is close.”
His mother shook her head, though her hand remained on the stone.
“No,” she said as if speaking to herself. “I should like to stand.”
“Very well,” Hazel replied, without argument.
The wind moved through the graveyard again, whispering through bare branches and brushing against the shawl Hazel had secured earlier. Greyson adjusted his stance, subtly shielding his mother from the cold, while Hazel mirrored the motion on her other side. They stood there together, the three of them, bound by loss and love and the quiet endurance of time.
