Chapter 27 #2
The images come so easily—a gangly boy with too-long limbs and a heart too big for his ribcage, whispering truth to the dark because no one else would listen.
I don’t have words for what that does to me.
I crane my neck to peer up at him. “Recite it for me.”
Soren’s smile tilts, half-awkward, half-boyish, and he rubs the back of his neck. “You really want to hear the tragic eighth-grade emo ramblings of a kid with bad hair and worse posture?”
“Yes,” I whisper, my heart already tripping over itself.
For a beat, he stares at me—long, quiet, searching.
He’s tracking tiny circles on my arm, but then the teasing fades, every trace of humor replaced with something weightier that pins me in place.
And with a breath that trembles at the edges, he begins.
His gaze never wavers from me, not once, as though every word has waited sixteen years to land exactly here, with me.
“Someday, I’ll find her.
The one who sees past the shadows I drag behind,
who doesn’t flinch at the storm within me,
but walks straight into it.
Someday, she’ll look at me
like I was always worth the wait.
Like the world didn’t break me wrong,
just bent me toward her.
Her laughter will be firelight.
Her stubbornness, a shield.
Her heart will burn so fiercely
that mine—ruined, restless, half-afraid—
will finally believe it can be whole.
Someday, she’ll make me brave enough
to stop running from my own reflection.
Someday, she’ll be my reflection—
and I’ll know I was always hers.”
My throat closes around air that won’t come. The fort, the lights, the faint hiss of the fire—all of it fades until there’s only him and the words he’s laying bare between us.
No one’s ever looked at me like Soren does. No one’s ever spoken to me like he has—like my existence is not only seen, but prophesied.
I want to laugh, cry, and bury myself in him. My eyes sting, and I squeeze his hand. And when he squeezes back, my insides go soft in a way I don’t know how to protect.
His voice cracks when he finally manages to whisper, “It was always you, Bells?”
Before I can breathe a response, he twists, capturing my mouth with his, stealing air, and giving it back.
This kiss feels like all the years he carried those words alone are finally spilling into me.
My chest splinters and mends in the same heartbeat, and the taste of him is salt and heat and forever.
When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t let me go. I fold into him, his arms locking around me, my head nestled in the crook of his arm. The fire pops in the hearth, but it’s nothing compared to the warmth of his chest beneath my cheek, the rhythm of his heart beating just for me, under my palm.
I exhale into the quiet, knowing for the first time in my life I don’t have to run. I don’t have to hide.
This man feels like home.
We keep going.
Soren tells me about his first tattoo—badly drawn runes. I confess I once shoplifted a glitter pen from Claire’s in middle school and felt so guilty I mailed it back with an apology note.
We laugh. We go quiet. We confess. We listen.
Eventually, Soren twists onto his side, one arm curled beneath his head, the other resting near my hip. The starlight from the glass still glows above us.
“Wanna know my favorite first?” he asks.
My heart picks up. “Do I?”
His fingers find the edge of the quilt and toy with it absently. “You. I’ve never fake-dated anyone before.”
I gaze up at the stars. “That’s not fair.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t have anything equally romantic to say back.”
Soren lets out a breath that fans warm across my neck. “You don’t have to. I didn’t say it to get something from you. I said it because it’s true.”
There’s a beat. Maybe two.
“I’m not used to this.”
“Which part?”
“The safety. The stillness. Someone wanting more than a version of me that benefits them somehow.”
Soren doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak right away. But when he does, it lands in the marrow of me.
“The only version I want of you is the messy, tired, snarky, post-convention gremlin version. I want the girl who builds pillow forts and gets lost in her own plot twists. The one who wears glitter socks into battle and then hoards all the cinnamon rolls.”
I close my eyes. On the outside, it might appear as though I’m hiding. Or running from the moment. I’m not. I’m feeling.
There’s a soft pulse of heat in my chest. The ache of wanting to believe him. The terrifying, bone-deep comfort of being held like I matter.
A second passes. Maybe more. He shifts. Blankets rustle. A quiet breath escapes his lips. His hand brushes a piece of hair from my cheek. Why does it feel like the most natural thing in the world?
His mouth finds mine. A tender press of lips that says I understand you. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.
My chest tightens in that sweet, unbearable way that reminds me of falling. And I’m choosing to fall.
Aren’t I?
Eyes still closed, I tilt toward him, chasing more.
His palm cradles my jaw. And in that tiny, perfect world we’ve built out of couch cushions and whispered confessions, I kiss him back, hoping he feels what I can’t quite say yet.
He does. He’s told me as much.
When we finally pull apart, barely breathing, his forehead rests against mine, and he murmurs so quietly I almost miss it—
“I dreamt about you… before I ever met you.”
My heart forgets how to beat. This is the beginning of something I haven’t allowed myself to want in years.
I don’t know how long we stay beneath the stars, under the quiet hush of the pillow fort we built like two overgrown kids avoiding adulthood. But eventually, the night fades.
Soren’s hand brushes mine again, but this time he doesn’t pull away.
Neither do I.
The blanket above us shakes a little when I roll onto my side to face him. The shadows don’t hide the way he’s gazing at me with tenderness. I could drown it.
“I’m not sleepy,” I whisper, voice barely audible over the gentle crackle of the fire still glowing in the hearth.
Soren’s hand lifts. His knuckles skim down the line of my jaw. “Me either.”
There’s a moment where we just breathe. My body sings, not from desire alone, but from how deeply Soren sees me right now, and how he wants more than my snark or my stats or the way I fill out a dress.
He wants me. Only me.
I reach up and trace the edge of his mouth with a featherlight touch. “Are you always this patient?”
“Only when it counts,” he says. And then, more quietly, “Only with you.”
He kisses me.
Soft.
Searching.
His mouth moves over mine, tasting a secret he doesn’t want to lose. His hand cradles my cheek while the other slips to my waist, holding me as if I might disappear if he lets go.
I don’t know who moves first. Maybe we both do. But we’re shifting together, moving from the fort to the rug in front of the fire. Pillows tumble as we go, but we don’t care, too lost in this heart-bonding moment.
No words escape us.
Soren’s hands slide under the hem of my shirt and lift, his eyes darkening when he sees my bare skin. He kisses a path down my throat, across my collarbone, the swell of my breast. Every press of his mouth makes my body arch closer, but he doesn’t rush.
He undresses, it’s somehow more intimate than anything else we’ve done. There’s no performance here. No bit. Only us.
“Still scared?” He hovers above me, gaze drinking me in.
“Yes,” I whisper. “But I want this. I want you.”
His mouth captures mine again, and this time, it deepens, tongues brushing, breaths mingling. He’s heat and promise, and when his hard length lines up against me, my hips lift instinctively. Soren groans, a sound full of restraint. I wrap my legs around his waist and pull him closer.
Closer.
When Soren finally enters me, it’s a communion. He’s tracing devotion into every inch from the inside out.
There’s no frantic pace. No rough urgency. Only a rhythm that’s made entirely of sweet tension and unbearable closeness–a brewing storm that builds with every stroke, and whispered name, and kiss pressed to sweat-damp skin.
As I fall apart this time, it’s quiet. But it’s the loudest I’ve ever felt.