"We should."
Neither of us moves.
Her fingers trace the scar on my jaw. The touch sends heat through my chest.
"After the festival," she says. "After we save this town."
"After," I agree.
But I kiss her again anyway.
Because right now, in this barn, with lantern light and hay dust and the impossible odds pressing down, this is the only thing that makes sense.
This moment.
This woman.
This fragile, furious hope that we might actually win.
I lock the bistro door behind us. The festival's echoes fade, distant laughter, a final fiddle note. Pine Hollow sleeps, but my pulse races.
Ivy's hand fits in mine. We climb the narrow stairs to my small room above the kitchen. It's cramped, lived-in. Bed unmade. A window overlooking the square. I light candles on the sill, their flames flickering gold against the glass.
"Sit," I say. She perches on the bed's edge. I fetch cider from the mini-fridge—a bottle from Hank's orchard, crisp and tart. Pour two glasses. Hand her one.
We clink. Sip.
The cider bites my tongue, cool and sharp. Ivy's throat moves as she swallows. I watch, heat building in my gut.
"That speech today," she says softly. "You meant it."
"Every word." I set my glass down. Sit beside her. Our thighs touch. "I'm scared, Ivy. Of failing this place. Of not belonging anywhere."
She turns to me. Her eyes search mine. "I get that. I've spent years guarding seeds, systems. But people? Trusting someone not to disappear?" She exhales. "That terrifies me."
I cup her face. Thumb her cheek. "I won't disappear."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
She leans in. Our lips meet, slow. Her mouth opens under mine, tasting of cider and need. I deepen the kiss, tongue sliding against hers. Heat surges through me.
My hands roam. Trace her neck, her shoulders. She shrugs off her jacket. I pull her shirt over her head, exposing pale skin, freckles dusting her collarbone. Her bra is simple, practical. I unhook it with steady fingers.
Her breasts spill free. Full, soft. Nipples harden in the cool air. I bend, take one in my mouth. Suck gently. She gasps, fingers tangling in my hair.
"Rogan."
I lavish attention there. Tongue circles the peak. Teeth graze lightly. Her back arches, pressing closer. The scent of her—earth and soap—fills my senses.
She tugs at my shirt. I strip it off. Her hands explore my chest, tracing muscles, the scar on my jaw. "You're beautiful," she whispers.
I lay her back. Undo her jeans. Slide them down with her panties. She's bare to me now. Wet folds glisten. I part her thighs, settle between them.
My cock strains against my pants, hard and insistent. I free it, thick length springing out. Veins pulse. Pre-cum beads at the tip.
I position myself. Rub the head along her entrance. She's slick, ready. "Tell me you want this."
