The days after the festival settled into a fragile new normal. Willow Creek returned to its quiet summer pace — slower mornings, longer afternoons, the square once again just a grassy park. But inside the house on Maple Lane, the air felt heavier, charged with everything we could no longer pretend wasn’t happening.
I woke in Elias’s bed again, curled against his chest, his arm draped possessively over my waist. His hand rested on my stomach, fingers splayed as if he could protect whatever future we were building. He wasn’t fully asleep. His thumb traced slow, clingy circles on my skin — the same gentle pattern that had become our secret morning language.
“Morning, love,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to my temple. His voice was low and rough with sleep. “I keep thinking about last night.
