His breath hitched, his body still humming under my touch. And in that quiet look he gave me—part awe, part disbelief—I saw it. The trust. The surrender. The same thing I’d felt the moment I’d realized loving him didn’t scare me anymore.
He kissed me again then—slower, deeper, full of everything we didn’t have to say out loud.
And I kissed him back like I never wanted the night to end.
Brock
Thanksgiving Day
WhidbeyIslandhadaway of looking like a postcard even in November. Brown and red leaves clung to the madrona trees, chimney smoke curled into the air, and that quiet kind of calm that only came from being surrounded by salt water settled into my bones.
Along with deep-seeded anxiety, but that had less to do with the ocean and everything to do with seeing my family.
Tucker leaned against the window of the rental car, taking it all in. “It’s like ifDeadliest CatchandPractical Magichad a baby.”
I snorted. “You know they filmed that here, right?”
“Which one?”
“Practical Magic.Mom was an extra.”
His big, beautiful eyes lit up. “Shut up.”
“It’s true. Sandra Bullock still sends her a holiday card every year.”
He grinned at me, the kind that made my chest ache in the best way. And then, like he could sense the nerves under my skin, he reached across the center console and squeezed my hand.
The cabin came into view just after dusk settled in, golden light glowing softly behind the windows like the house itself had been waiting for us. It was the same as it had always been—weathered cedar siding, chipped white trim, wind chimes clinking lazily from the porch. A pair of Adirondack chairs were still out front, even though it was too cold now to sit in them for long, and the old horseshoe nailed to the beam above the door tilted slightly to one side, exactly how I remembered.
It was one of those places where nothing ever changed, not really—where the wallpaper still held faint traces of long-ago Thanksgivings and the creaky floorboard in the hallway still caught your heel if you forgot to step over it.
Tucker let out a low whistle beside me. “You grew up here?”
“Yup,” I said, trying not to sound self-conscious. “Still happy you came home with me instead of jetting off to New York with Roman?”
“C’mon, Heller,” he said. Even after nearly two months together, he insisted on calling me by my last name. Except when we were in bed. “You know I’d follow you anywhere.”
I blinked at him, a lump rising in my throat before I could swallow it down. We hadn’t even gotten out of the car yet, and somehow he’d already made it feel like coming home.
“Besides, just think of the ways we can defile your childhood bedroom tonight.”
And just like that, the moment was over. I busted out laughing and grabbed for the door handle.
The front door swung open before we cleared the gravel driveway, and my mom stepped out, dish towel still in one hand.
“There you are!” she exclaimed, eyes lighting up as she pulled me into a quick hug that smelled like butter and rosemary. Then she turned to Tucker, who barely had time to introduce himself before she was pulling him in too.
“You must be Johnathan,” she said, grinning up at him like she already knew all his stats. “Sandra Heller. We’ve heard so much about you.”
“Hopefully just the good stuff,” Tucker replied with an easy smile, but I caught the tiny flicker of nerves in his eyes. “And please, call me Tuck or Tucker.”
“Of course.” She slipped her arm through his like they were already best friends. “Come on in where it’s warm. Mulled cider is on the stove, and Laurel’s roasting enough vegetables to feed an army.”
The house smelled like Thanksgiving had exploded—in the best way. Nutmeg, cloves, caramelizing onions, cinnamon baked into the air itself. The old tile floors were warm beneath our feet, the same checkered, black-and-white pattern I’d tiptoed across as a kid.
By the time we reached the kitchen, both of my sisters had already surrounded him like a bachelorette contestant. Tucker handled it like a pro—laying on the charm, telling them stories about dugout pranks and the best stadium hot dogs. I might have rolled my eyes once or twice, but it didn’t matter. Watching him win over anybody in every room he walked into was one of my favorite things about him.
“Geez, Louise,” Laurel exclaimed while plating a tray of olives. “You sure know how to pick them, little brother.”
