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DORIAN

R ain came easy to Celestial Pines.

It didn’t roar the way it did in cities, didn’t batter windows like angry fists. It arrived like a soft confession, whispering through the trees, pattering on rooftops, soaking into the soil like it had secrets to share.

Dorian stood just under the overhang of the wraparound porch, hands braced on the railing. The storm had rolled in quick, all gray skies and distant thunder, but he welcomed the quiet it brought with it. Rain made everything pause. Even the house had gone still. The spirits, too.

Behind him, the front door creaked open. Soft steps followed. He didn’t need to look.

Autumn.

She smelled like mugwort and coffee, like fresh parchment and that earthy spark of magic that always seemed to crackle in the air around her. He didn’t turn until she came to stand beside him, one hand lightly grazing the railing as she leaned into the space between them.

“Made it back,” he said, voice low.

She glanced sideways. “I brought herbs.”

He nodded. “And?” he asked, a little hopeful, a little careful.

She was quiet for a beat. “Missy says I’m emotionally stunted and afraid of vulnerability.”

He snorted. “Sounds about right.”

Autumn gave him a sidelong look, half amused, half exasperated. “And you’re not?”

“Oh, I’m definitely afraid,” he said. “Difference is, I’ve been staring down bears and broken plumbing long enough to do things scared.”

There was a pause before she said gently: “You make a mean sandwich for someone who seems to know their way more around the carpentry side than the kitchen.”

“I aim to please.”

They stood like that for a while, shoulder to shoulder, watching the rain smear silver streaks across the mountain view. Thunder grumbled low in the distance.

“So, you never really have thought about leaving?” she asked, quietly.

“Sometimes,” he said. “Like I said, after the fire, I didn’t think I had anything left. But this place… it called me back.”

“You believe in that?” she asked. “Places calling to people?”

“I believe in a lot of things now,” he said, looking at her.

Autumn didn’t flinch under the weight of his gaze. That was something he’d always liked about her. She met him head-on. Even when she was scared. Even when she wanted to run.

Her sweater was damp at the sleeves, hair pulled into a loose braid over one shoulder. A few strands clung to her cheek, and he reached up without thinking, brushing them back.

She stiffened but didn’t move.

His fingers lingered at her jaw, warm against the cool drizzle still hanging in the air.

“You’re hard to read,” he murmured.

“You’re easy to fall for,” she said before she seemed to be able to stop herself.

The words hung between them like thunder.

She blinked, as if surprised by her own mouth, and moved to step back but Dorian’s hand was already at her waist, gentle but firm.

“Don’t,” he said. Not a command. A plea.

Rain tapped on the porch roof. Somewhere down the lane, a dog barked once, and then the whole world went quiet again.

Autumn looked up at him, violet-blue eyes wide and unguarded for once. “Dorian…”

“I know this started out fake,” he said, voice rough. “But there ain’t a thing about what I feel for you that doesn’t feel real. My bear isn’t allowing that.”

She didn’t speak. Just reached up and touched his chest, right where his heart beat steady under flannel and warmth.

And then, without ceremony, without panic, she rose on her toes and kissed him.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t wild or desperate. It was soft. Intentional. A pause. A letting go.

His hands curled around her waist as he kissed her back, slow and reverent. Her fingers gripped the fabric of his shirt. They fit, somehow. In the rain, under the sloped eaves of a house full of ghosts and history, they fit.

When they finally pulled apart, she didn’t move far.

Her breath was warm against his jaw. “This changes things.”

Dorian’s heart beat a little faster, but he kept his voice low. “I’m countin’ on it,” he said, resting his forehead lightly against hers.

Thunder rolled closer, low and steady.

She didn’t lean in again. But she didn’t step away, either.

When she spoke next, it was a whisper tinged with something raw. “You’re gonna ruin me, aren’t you?”

He wanted to say no. Wanted to promise her safety, and ease, and love without risk. But she wouldn’t believe that. Not yet. So instead, he said what he meant.

“Not if I can help it. I’m aiming for keepin’ you.”

Autumn pulled back, just enough to meet his eyes. Her expression flickered—hope battling habit, fear whispering to trust. “You’re sure about this? About me?”

“I’m as sure as I am about this rain falling,” he said quietly. “And the ghosts still watching us from that attic.”

She snorted softly, though her smile was tight. “You really know how to romance a girl.”

“I’ve got layers.”

That earned a huff, maybe half a laugh, and for a second it felt like she might relax into him. But her hands lingered at his sides instead of wrapping around his back, and her eyes kept drifting to the porch floor, like she was trying to memorize a way out.

Still, she didn’t move. Not entirely.

So Dorian did what he always did. He gave her space without making her feel it. Let his arms slip just a little looser around her waist, let his presence be solid but not suffocating.

They stood like that until the rain eased to a whisper, her shoulder barely brushing his chest, his cheek tilted toward the top of her head.

He closed his eyes, breathing her in.

Maybe the ghosts weren’t gone yet.

The house still held secrets and sorrow.

But this moment—frail and fleeting—was real.

And even if she wasn’t ready to let herself believe in it, he was.

He’d hold the space for both of them. For as long as it took.