Jesse in my home.
Jesse’s hands at my waist.
The way my body responded like it had been waiting for someone to touch me and mean it.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
“Seriously?” I whisper. “Now? We’re doing this now?”
Heat blooms low in my stomach, traitorous and vivid, as if my body is determined to make sure I never forget what happened, even if my mind would really like to, at least long enough to function.
My cheeks burn.
I open my eyes and stare at my grandmother’s journal instead, as if I can borrow her steadiness through paper.
“Grandma,” I whisper. “If you have any advice on how to not implode emotionally, now would be a great time.”
The journal offers no immediate guidance. Just her neat handwriting and the faint scent of old paper and beeswax that clings to everything I own.
I flip a page anyway. I read a paragraph about winter feeding.
I read it again.
And then I realize my eyes are wet, and I don’t remember deciding to cry.
Great.
Perfect.
I wipe at my cheeks hard enough to feel a sting.
“I’m fine,” I tell the room.
My gaze drifts, unwillingly, to the little bag with the ribbon. Wyatt’s gift.
I reach for it, fingers trembling as I slip the ribbon loose. Inside, nestled carefully together?—
Seeds. Salve. Chamomile.
Things that say:I see you. I notice you. I want to take care of you.
My throat tightens so sharply I have to put my head down on the table.
Just one second.
Just a tiny, pathetic pause where I breathe and try not to drown in the fact that I just turned down a man who is… good.
And the worst part?
I meant it.
I couldn’t say yes. Not when I’m already tangled up with Jesse. Not when my body still remembers the hookup like it was a promise.
Not when Marshall’s presence keeps appearing in the corners of my thoughts, heavy and watchful, a storm that refuses to move on.
Too many men.
Too much attention.
