Alder watches me, waiting, his finger still resting against my lips, his breath uneven, his eyes dark with promise. I know that look. That look is a trap. That look is a spell I can’t afford to fall under again.
I rip myself away, scrambling to my feet.
The loss is immediate. His heat vanishes, the touch disappears, but the ache he leaves behind, that hollow, open ache, burns hotter.
“I can’t,” I say, voice rough, splintering. “We can’t.”
His brows crease, lips still parted like he’s about to say something. Like he’s about to stop me.
But I don’t give him the chance.
I turn and walk fast toward the tree line, away from the beach, away from him, away from every stupid, dangerous part of me that still wants him more than air.
My pulse pounds in my ears. My steps crunch hard against the sand. I need space. I need air. I need to remember I’m not that woman anymore—the one who used to melt under his touch, fold herself into the shape he needed.
But he looked at me like I was still her.
And the worst part?
A tiny part of me wants to be.
A groan tears from my throat, all frustration and ache. I rub my temples. “Emotional maturity is wildly overrated.”
But dammit, I am proud of myself.
This isn’t running away. This is clarity. This is growth. This is the seasoned, evolved Gemma Summers making a goddamn smart choice.
At least, that’s what I tell myself as I keep walking.
There’s a rustle of movement behind me, the soft drag of footfalls in the sand. He’s not chasing me. Not yet. But he’s following. Because of course he is.
He always follows.
I don’t turn around. I don’t need to. I can feel him like gravity—like heat and memory and inevitability. Hispresence wraps around me like the tide, slow and sure, stealing all the space I thought I carved out.
The terrain shifts beneath my feet. The sand gives way to packed earth and beach grass. The world narrows to a cliff’s edge, jagged and wild. The sea churns below, waves smashing against stone like they’re trying to shake the island apart. Mist rises, clinging to my skin, cooling the fire simmering inside me.
I inhale, bracing myself. One breath. Then another.
“Gemma,” he says, voice lower now, closer. “Don’t run from this. Don’t run from me.”
I force a laugh, but it’s brittle. “I’m allowed to want space.” My arms cross, locking tight over my chest.
But he’s there now—not as near as I want him but closer than he should be.
I whirl. “You don’t get to—”
And then I see him.
He’s flushed, lips parted, chest rising and falling like he just survived a battle. And maybe he did. Maybe we both did.
I try to hold onto my anger—it’s easier, safer—but I can’t.
His hands cup my face. His thumbs stroke along my cheeks, and it undoes me. This tenderness is more deadly than anything he’s ever said.
“Is it me you’re running from,” he asks softly, “or is it what you feel when we’re together?”
I want to tell him it’s both. I want to tell him I’m terrified. That he still has the power to shatter me, and that’s not a fair thing to give someone.
