The morning after the final night of the Willow Creek Summer Festival felt heavier than the rain that had fallen overnight. The square was quiet now, crews already dismantling booths and packing away the fairy lights that had made everything feel magical just hours ago. Inside the house on Maple Lane, the usual morning sounds — coffee brewing, the soft creak of floorboards — carried a new tension.
I woke up in Elias’s bed again, my body still warm from the way he had loved me the night before. His arm was draped possessively over my waist, his hand splayed across my stomach as if he could hold onto the future we both wanted. He wasn’t fully asleep; his thumb traced slow, clingy circles on my skin.
“Morning, love,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. His voice was rough with slee
