He moved through her kitchen while thunder rolled farther and farther away, grateful for something simple to do with his hands. When he glanced back, she was watching him over the blanket edge, eyes tracking the set of his shoulders, the raindrops still clinging to his hairline, as if reassuring herself he was really there.
When he came back, he wasn’t just holding the steaming mug. Between his fingers was a single bloom from the vase of Moonlight Kisses on her table, its pale petals catching the faint glow from the window.
He handed her the tea first, then the flower, bending to give her a soft kiss. “Seemed fitting,” he said quietly, nodding toward the window.
He watched Zoe follow his gaze to the window. Outside, the clouds had thinned to reveal a full, round moon, luminous against the dark sky—just like in the legend. The soft light poured through the rain-streaked window, brushing across the bloom in her hand.
She swallowed, her voice going soft. “You remembered,” she whispered.
Jackson smiled faintly, though his eyes stayed on the moon. “Hard to forget a story like that.”
For a long moment, the only sound was the soft patter of rain and the quiet hiss of the kettle cooling behind him.
“She knew what she was doing,” he finally said, glancing toward the crate. “Found a quiet place. Waited out the worst of it.”
He watched Zoe’s gaze slide to the crate. “It’s a miracle, isn’t it? The way joy pops up when you least expect it?”
He sank beside her. The couch dipped, their shoulders touching.
“You scared me,” he said softly.
“You scared me,” she returned, a small laugh catching on the words. “Driving onto the grass like that.”
His mouth tugged. “Couldn’t get to you fast enough.”
She set the mug on the low table, and his hand found the blanket’s edge, smoothing it over her knee. The steady motion seemed to ease the tight line of her shoulders. She turned, and he was already looking at her, lamplight catching in her eyes, the last of the storm still reflected there.
“Jackson,” she whispered.
He answered her with a kiss. She curled her fingers into the front of his shirt and opened to him, the blanket slipping, and for Jackson the world narrowed to the press of mouths, the steady cadence of rain, the kitten-soft sounds from the back room.
He pulled away only to rest his forehead against hers. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he murmured.
“Then you better go slow,” Zoe replied.
That was all the permission he needed.
FORTY-SEVEN
ZOE
Sunday, April 6th
The hush pressed in, as though the whole world had stepped away to give them this moment. The storm, the rain outside, felt far away.
Jackson’s hands skimmed her waist, the warmth of his palms seeping through the thin fabric of her shirt. It wasn’t close enough. Not nearly. She wanted the roughness of his calloused hands on her bare skin.
She lifted her arms, wordless, and he understood. He tugged the T-shirt over her head, the static hum brushing her hair as it slid free. His mouth was on hers before the garment even hit the floor. She cupped the back of his neck, holding him steady so she could drink him in.
“So beautiful. Forever my dream girl,” he murmured between kisses, his breath uneven.
Her fingers fumbled with the hem of his wet shirt, nerves tangling with need, before she finally got it over his head. Cool air brushed her skin, tightening her nipples, or maybe it was the way his eyes darkened, hunger and reverence woven together as he took her in.
His hands were slow, deliberate, tracing a line down her stomach. He paused at the dip of her waist, circling lightly, then slid back up. When his palm cupped her breast, her breath hitched.
Jackson lowered his head, his lips brushing a featherlight kiss over the swell of her chest before closing around her nipple. The sensation ripped through her like lightning. His tongue teased, swirling slow, deliberate strokes until her back lifted from the couch with a gasp.
“Jackson…” Her moan trembled out, soft and desperate, her fingers threading into his hair.
