The days after the festival settled into a deceptively peaceful rhythm. Willow Creek returned to its quiet summer self — slower mornings, longer afternoons, the square once again just a grassy park with a stage. But inside the house on Maple Lane, the air felt thicker, charged with everything we were no longer able to hide from ourselves.
I woke in Elias’s bed again, my body curled against his chest, his arm wrapped possessively around me. His hand rested on my stomach, fingers splayed as if he could anchor us both to this moment. He wasn’t asleep. His thumb traced slow, clingy circles on my skin, the same gentle pattern he’d started weeks ago.
“Morning, love,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to my temple. His voice was low and rough. “I keep thinking about last night. About how right it f
