She’d seen those women waiting for him. From her spot near the edge of the square, she’d had a perfect view of them materializing at the stage like groupies summoned by some primal signal. Young. Pretty. Eager. The kind of women who probably had all his old albums and had spent years fantasizing about exactly this moment—Ben Holloway, live and in person, fresh off a performance that had left the entire crowd breathless.
For a heartbeat, she had considered going to him and staking her claim before they could sink their perfectly manicured claws into her male. The urge had been surprisingly fierce, a possessiveness she hadn’t known she possessed rising up like a tide.
But she’d held back. Because this couldn’t be about her. It had to be about him.
He had spent six years running from this part of himself. Six years convinced that the stage would destroy him, that the attention would corrupt him, and that he couldn’t be trusted around the temptations that came with performance. He’d built walls so high and so thick that he’d almost forgotten there was a person underneath them.
Tonight, he’d torn those walls down. And she had known—known with absolute certainty—that if she went to him, he would always wonder. He would always question whether he’d have been strong enough to choose her on his own.
So she’d stayed where she was. Trusted him. Let him make the decision himself.
And he hadn’t disappointed her.
The memory of it still made her heart race—the way he’d looked at her across the square, the intensity in his eyes, the single-minded purpose in his stride as he’d walked past every other woman without so much as a glance. Like they didn’t exist. Like she was the only person in the entire world.
You,that look had said.Only you. Always you.
“You’re thinking very loudly,” he murmured against her hair.
“Am I?”
“Mmm. Your heart keeps speeding up.”
“Maybe that’s just because a very attractive rabbit is carrying me through town like a conquering hero.”
“Conquering hero?” A low laugh vibrated through his chest. “Is that what I am?”
“You tell me.” She tilted her head back to look at him. The streetlamps painted his silver-grey fur in warm amber tones, catching the edge of his profile as he walked. “You did just sweep me off my feet in front of half the town.”
“You say that like I had a choice.”
“You always have a choice. That’s rather the point.”
His steps faltered for just a moment. When he looked down at her, something raw and vulnerable flickered in his expression.
“You stayed,” he said quietly. “When those women showed up. You stayed where you were.”
“Yes.”
“You could have come to me. You could have…” He seemed to struggle for words. “Made it clear.”
“I didn’t need to.” She reached up, tracing the line of his jaw with gentle fingers. “I already knew what you’d choose. You’re the one who needed to know.”
His arms tightened around her. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. He just held her closer, his breath warm against her temple, his heart pounding a steady rhythm against her side.
“I didn’t even see them,” he finally said. “I mean, I saw them. I registered that they were there. But it was like… like looking at furniture. Objects in the room that had nothing to do with me.” His voice dropped lower, rougher. “The only thing I could see was you.”
“Good answer.” She grinned up at him. “You’re getting better at this romance thing.”
“I had a good teacher.”
“Flatterer.”
“Just stating facts.”
They had passed the Town Hall now, leaving the lantern-lit festivities behind. The streets grew quieter and more intimate, the sounds of the festival fading to a distant hum. She could smell the night-blooming jasmine from someone’s garden and hear the crickets starting their evening chorus.
And beneath it all, she could smell him. That warm, earthy scent that had become as familiar as her own heartbeat. The scent of home.
