Page 19

ALICE

S unlight filters through the cabin window in soft, gold ribbons. The air smells like rain-damp wood and warm skin. I’m tangled in a blanket, my cheek pressed into a bare shoulder that feels like home and fire all at once.

Jason’s shoulder.

He’s still asleep.

And I… I don’t want to move.

Not even a little.

His arm is draped over my waist like he’s afraid I might vanish. One leg slung lazily over mine. His breathing is deep, slow. The kind of breathing that means his guard is all the way down.

I close my eyes, letting it sink in.

Last night wasn’t supposed to happen.

Not like that. Not after everything.

God, it did.

It was soft. Careful. Fierce. Kind. All the things I didn’t know my body could still feel.

I shift slightly, not to move away—just to turn toward him more.

To see his face.

Even in sleep, his brow’s furrowed, like he’s not quite sure peace belongs to him.

My fingers brush lightly across his chest, and he exhales, a low sound that makes my pulse skip.

I’ve never felt this safe.

That’s the part that hits me hardest.

Not the sex—not the tenderness or the way his hands made me feel like I was made of glass and steel all at once—but this.

The after.

The not-alone part.

The quiet.

I always thought safety was something you earned through control. Through walls and distance. Through never needing anyone enough to get hurt.

But this?

This is safety.

His warmth.

His weight.

The way he stayed through the storm inside me and still looked at me like I was worth the wait.

Jason stirs.

His hand tightens at my waist, thumb brushing bare skin.

“Mornin’,” he mumbles, voice rough and half-buried in the pillow.

“Hi,” I whisper.

He cracks one eye open, and that sleepy grin—the one that always hits me like sunshine through fog—slides across his face.

“You’re still here,” he says softly, like he’s checking.

I nod, heart thudding.

“I’m glad,” he says. “Didn’t wanna wake up and think I dreamed it.”

“You didn’t.”

His brow furrows. “You okay?”

I nod again, slower. “I’m… good. I think.”

“You think?” he teases gently, nudging his nose against mine.

“I don’t know how to be this okay. It’s new.”

His hand cups my face, thumb tracing the base of my jaw. “You’re safe here.”

I close my eyes.

Those words—they undo me a little.

He must feel it. Because his lips brush my forehead, then my cheek, and finally, lightly, my mouth.

It’s not hungry like last night.

It’s reverent.

Like he’s still asking for permission even though I’m already in his arms.

“I don’t know what happens next,” I whisper. “Like, after camp. After this.”

“Then don’t think about after yet,” he says. “Just think about right now.”

Right now.

His skin against mine.

The sound of birdsong through the trees.

The soft creak of the old bunk bed as we shift just enough to hold each other tighter.

Right now is enough.

More than enough.

By the time we make it to the mess hall, the camp is fully awake and buzzing with end-of-session energy. Kids are half-dressed, syrup is somehow on every surface, and the waffle line is stretching halfway to the lake.

Jason and I walk in separately.

On purpose.

Because we agreed—on the walk over, while pretending not to look like we’d spent the night wrapped around each other like roots—that it’s better to not make it obvious. For the campers’ sake. For the illusion of professionalism.

But of course, the universe has a sense of humor.

We’re barely ten steps inside when Hazel—twelve, a tiny firecracker with a spellbook bigger than her head and a gaze that cuts deeper than truth serum—spots me.

She’s at the center table with a group of Cabin E girls, holding court like the head of a coven, which is basically what she is.

Her eyes lock onto mine.

Then they drift to Jason, who’s trying to look inconspicuous while pretending to care deeply about the cereal dispenser.

Hazel smirks.

“Ohhh,” she sing-songs, voice carrying just enough to make my blood run cold. “Someone’s in looooove.”

I freeze mid-step.

The whole table of girls erupts into giggles.

Jason chokes on his orange juice.

Hazel continues, smug as anything. “Honestly, Miss Alice, I didn’t peg you for the scruffy type.”

“Hazel,” I hiss, cheeks flaming.

She shrugs. “Hey, I’m just reading your aura. It’s glowing pink. Like bubblegum. And lust.”

I want the earth to swallow me whole.

Jason raises his cup in mock salute without turning around. “Appreciate the feedback, Witchling.”

Hazel grins, sharp and delighted. “Don’t hurt her, Wolf Boy. Or I’ll hex your eyebrows crooked for life.”

“Fair,” he says, coughing down a laugh.

I grab a tray and all but dive for the oatmeal station.

Jason slides in beside me a minute later, whispering, “You okay?”

“I think I just died.”

“Could be worse,” he says. “Could’ve been one of the were-teen boys.”

I side-eye him. “You’d maul them.”

“Damn right.”

I try not to smile.

But I do anyway.

Because somehow, even in a cafeteria full of chaos, surrounded by waffle syrup and witchy teenagers.

I feel like I belong.

Later that morning, we end up by the lake.

The sun’s fully out now, chasing off the last of the storm’s chill. The water sparkles in that way it only does after rain—like it’s been scrubbed clean overnight.

The kids are splashing around, shrieking, diving, doing the kind of cannonballs that drench everything in a three-yard radius. Nolan’s midair, arms pinwheeling, and Rubi is explaining breath-holding techniques to a very unimpressed Ferix.

On the floating dock, Ryder the lifeguard lounges like a Renaissance statue brought to life—hair slicked back, mirrored sunglasses on, scales catching the light with every lazy flick of his tail. He doesn’t need a whistle. He just looks at the kids, and they behave.

Jason and I sit on a sun-warmed bench near the dock.

He doesn’t say anything at first.

Just slides his fingers into mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And it is.

His thumb strokes the back of my hand.

It’s nothing flashy. No kisses. No dramatic declarations.

Just this.

A shared stillness.

I let my head rest on his shoulder.

And for the first time in a very, very long time, I don’t feel like I’m bracing for the fall.

I just feel… okay.

More than okay.

Safe.

Seen.

Held.

And as Rubi waves at us from the shallows, her bracelet-sleeved arms flailing, Jason squeezes my hand once.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “This right here? This is the good stuff.”

I nod, smiling into his shirt.

He’s right.

This is the good stuff.