Chapter 8 #3
I scowled at absolutely nothing, annoyed at myself, at him, at the entire town of Sweetbriar for apparently conspiring against my emotional stability.
And yet my body had already filed its own opinion. I felt safe. I felt cared for. I almost felt like I had my best friend back.
Levi paused just inside the door, eyes sweeping the room. He nodded once, apparently satisfied, then steered us toward a corner booth tucked against the wall. Our booth. The one we had always sat in when we were young.
“This okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, sliding in. “Perfect.”
He took the seat across from me, close enough that my knee brushed his when he leaned forward. My breath caught for half a second, then eased. I told my lungs to calm down. They did not listen.
The space between us felt warm, quiet, full of things neither of us was saying yet. Every time I shifted, my leg grazed his again, and neither of us moved away.
“Look at this,” a voice cheerfully drawled. “If it isn’t my favorite cousin.”
Savannah appeared at our table with a tray tucked under her arm, dark hair pulled back, eyes already bright with interest. Her gaze flicked from Levi to me and back again.
Her smile warmed when she looked at me. We’d all gone to school together.
This wasn’t just Levi’s cousin serving our table. She was my friend, too.
“Hey, Sav,” Levi said. “Go ahead, I can see you trying to work it out.”
Savannah smiled sweetly, pen poised. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” she said.
“I’m just here to take your order. Hi, Becca, and to be completely clear, whatever this is, I am fully supportive of it.
The two of you together? This booth? Feels like old times. All that’s missing is Harper and Jude.”
“Hi,” I said, suddenly very aware of how this looked, how close we were sitting, how my knee was still pressed lightly against his under the table.
Savannah’s expression didn’t change, but something amused sparked in her eyes, as if she’d just found a puzzle piece she hadn’t known was missing. To her credit, she didn’t comment. Yet.
“What can I get you?” she asked, pen poised.
Levi glanced at me. “Still a ginger ale?” he asked. “With extra ice and cherries?”
I blinked. “You remember that?”
He shrugged, like it was obvious. “You always said it tasted better with equal parts ice and ginger ale. Super cold.”
Savannah’s pen paused for half a second before she recovered smoothly.
“And let me guess,” Levi continued, “we’re splitting the pretzel bites. Extra mustard.”
I laughed despite myself. “Your memory is almost creepy.”
He smiled, unbothered. “Accurate, though.”
“Weird but awesome,” I said, smiling back before I could stop myself.
Savannah wrote everything down, face neutral but eyes dancing. “I’ll be right back,” she said, already backing away. She disappeared toward the bar, and I could practically feel the silent mental note she was filing away to discuss with her family later.
Levi rested his forearms on the table, his posture easy yet attentive, as if settling in for something important.
I watched him without meaning to. Taking in the familiar line of his jaw, the calm confidence in how he held himself, the quiet certainty that had always been there, even when we were kids.
Being here with him felt strange and right all at once, like muscle memory waking up.
He looked up and caught me staring. “What?” he asked gently.
I shook my head, heat creeping up my neck. “Nothing.”
His mouth curved like he didn’t believe me, but he let it go.
For now.
I felt the pull of him like gravity. Steady. Gentle. Comforting. And I didn’t want to fight it anymore. I reached across the table, letting my fingers brush the back of his hand.
He didn’t pull away. He turned his hand over instead, palm up, letting our fingers lace together in the quiet space between us. His thumb traced a slow circle over my knuckles. Once. Twice.
He held my hand, and it felt like an anchor in the middle of everything I was trying not to feel.
The warmth of his skin seeped into mine, and for the first time in days, I could breathe a little easier.
Not because the fear was gone. But because I wasn’t alone.
The rest of the world—the river, the red light, the comment, the fear—faded to background noise, lost in the sounds of the pub.
His thumb kept moving in slow, soothing circles over my knuckles.
The callus on the pad of his thumb caught slightly against my skin, a small reminder that he worked with his hands, that he built things, carried things, held on when it was important.
I stared at our joined hands as if they belonged to someone else.
Mine looked small against his. Fragile. I didn’t pull away.
I couldn’t. For the first time in longer than I wanted to admit, someone was touching me as if I might break, like I was worth being careful with.
My throat tightened. Not from fear. From something softer. Something I hadn’t let myself feel in years. He didn’t speak. Just let his thumb keep moving, steady as a heartbeat, until mine started to slow down and match it.