Page 27

ALICE

I don’t do surprises.

Not because I don’t like them—but because they make me nervous. The planning. The what-ifs. The vulnerability of it all. But tonight? I want to give him something real.

Jason’s spent weeks pouring himself into this camp. Into these kids. Into me.

And for once, I want to be the one who shows up.

So I sneak out right after dinner, clutching my little basket of half-burned tea candles and pilfered supplies from the mess hall.

I already got a head start setting up while Jason was wrangling post-talent show cleanup.

Hazel helped—her price was three extra s’mores and the promise not to tattle to the kitchen witches.

The dock’s quiet when I arrive. The lake’s like glass, moonlight painting the water in soft silver brushstrokes. The woods hum around me, full of frogsong and crickets and the occasional whoosh of something winged overhead. But it feels safe.

Our little world.

I lay out the blanket first—Jason’s flannel one, the one he’s claimed as “too manly to be plaid” but always smells like pine and his cologne.

Then the lanterns—tiny floating spheres, enchanted to flicker like fireflies. I borrowed them from the drama shed. Maybe stole. It’s fine.

And finally, the food.

Okay, so it’s not gourmet. But I packed it all myself. Grilled veggie skewers. A thermos of spiced cider. A jar of wild berry jam I got from the camp store and slathered onto still-warm biscuits like an actual domestic woodland creature.

And, of course, a s’mores kit—complete with handmade marshmallows I spent way too long trying to shape into hearts.

I sit on the end of the dock, fingers twisting nervously in my lap, waiting.

Jason shows up ten minutes later, barefoot and glowing with curiosity. He stops at the tree line, staring.

“Babe?”

I stand, suddenly awkward. “Surprise.”

He walks down the dock slowly, his eyes flicking over the blanket, the food, the candles.

“You did this?”

I nod, heart doing acrobatics in my chest. “I just… wanted to do something for you. For us. After everything.”

He doesn’t say anything for a second.

Then he smiles. Soft and kind and Jason.

“You trying to make me cry?”

I laugh, suddenly light. “Maybe just a little.”

He drops down onto the blanket beside me and pulls me into a hug. His chin rests on my head.

“This is perfect.”

I breathe him in. “You’ve been doing so much—for the kids, for camp. I wanted to do something that was just for you. Something… slow.”

We settle in, side by side, feet dangling off the dock into the cool lake water.

Jason grabs a biscuit and takes a dramatic bite. “Okay, this is dangerously good.”

“Thank you. I may or may not have bribed the kitchen staff for their secret butter spell.”

His eyes widen. “No wonder it tastes like victory.”

The moon climbs higher, and we eat slowly, lazily, like the night’s suspended just for us.

When we get to the s’mores, Jason tries to toast a marshmallow over a floating lantern, which definitely doesn’t work. I light a tiny camp-safe flame in my palm—one of the only spells I’ve really mastered—and he roasts one with exaggerated reverence.

“This is how champions cook,” he declares.

“I’m so honored to witness it.”

We laugh until we’re breathless. Then the silence comes—not awkward, not tense. Just full.

Full of stars.

Full of peace.

I take a sip of cider, eyes on the moon’s reflection.

“I used to think romance had to be big,” I whisper. “Grand gestures. Roses. Fancy dinners. But this? This is what I really wanted.”

Jason’s quiet for a second.

Then he says, “You know what I wanted?”

I glance at him.

“Someone who makes a dock picnic feel like the most important thing in the world.”

My heart stutters.

“I think I’m falling in love with you,” I whisper.

He turns toward me, eyes softer than I’ve ever seen them.

“I already fell.”

The stars are brighter now, like they’ve inched closer just to listen.

I rest my head against his shoulder, my voice small in the hush of the lake. “Can I tell you something kind of... scary?”

Jason’s arm wraps around me immediately, protective and gentle all at once. “Always.”

I swallow hard, the words catching like pebbles in my throat. “Even though I’m happy—really happy—I still get nervous sometimes. About… this. About us.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch.

So I keep going.

“My last relationship... it was built on lies. I didn’t know how much until it all fell apart. And even now, even with you—someone I trust completely—there’s this little part of me that’s still bracing. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Jason’s quiet for a second, just breathing next to me.

Then he gently shifts, turning so we’re face to face in the moonlight. His hands cradle mine, rough thumbs brushing softly over my knuckles.

“Alice,” he says, voice deep and sure, “I know you’ve been hurt. And I hate that. I hate that anyone made you feel like love is something you have to tiptoe around.”

I blink back the sting in my eyes.

“I’m not perfect,” he says, “but I’m yours. You’ve got my loyalty, my honesty—every stupid, stubborn, werewolfy part of me. You’re not just some girl I care about. You’re my mate. And that means something to me. It means everything.”

He pauses, squeezing my hands.

“I will always be true to you. Always. No games. No lies. No pulling away when things get hard. If you need time, I’ll wait. If you need space, I’ll give it. But I’m not going anywhere unless you tell me to.”

I’m crying now. Not sobbing—just tears, soft and unashamed.

I nod, voice caught. “I don’t want you to go.”

“Good,” he says, brushing my cheek with the back of his hand. “Because I already unpacked.”

I laugh through the tears, and he leans in, kissing me slow—like a vow.

Somehow, I don’t feel like I’m falling.

I feel like I’ve landed.