Chapter 12
Hunter
We ate croissants as we warmed the cocoa and sat peacefully in one of the sofas by the lantern in the middle of his store.
Snow collected on the windows, and wind whipped around the building.
My eyes kept drifting from the lines on the page to the storm outside, the muffled swirl of white helping the noise in my head—worries about leaving, about tenure, about everything I was trying to prove.
Prove to whom? Myself? To my ex, about whom I don’t give a shit?
To the school that overlooked me. How many days did I have left until I sold the coffee shop?
I couldn’t recall right now, hadn’t written a number down in forever…
didn’t even want to. Counting the days felt like lying when my chest tightened at the thought of leaving Wes.
But did selling my place mean I was leaving Wes?
That wasn’t right. Could I stay here? I could…
Fuck I don’t know.
In the quiet glow of the lantern, cocoa warming my hands, Wes was pressed to my side, and I felt a rare calm, as if maybe the storm could stay outside for a while.
If I moved away, I could always come back and share this with Wesley.
If he wanted me to. If he didn’t meet someone else who loved this town as much as he did.
Who would that be?
For the first time, I caught myself thinking—what if I didn’t sell? What if I found someone to run the place while I taught? A manager. Someone steady. Molly was good—would BBs kill me if I poached her? Would she even be interested?
I didn’t want to think about that.
“You’ve been on the same page for ten minutes now,” Wesley teased and nudged me.
“I’m digesting his premise,” I lied.
“So, what is this professor saying then?” he asked.
“I’m only on chapter two,” I admitted.
“Yeah, but you have to have a feel for where it’s going!?” he pressed, eyes bright with interest.
I sighed, smiled a little. “He’s arguing that the Union Army’s supply chain in 1863 was basically one long disaster, bogged down by politics and poor communication. He’s picking apart every decision like it was a chessboard gone wrong. Interesting, but very dry.”
Wesley grinned. “And you’re into that?”
“Of course I am,” I said, then tilted my head. “What about you? What are you reading?”
His expression lit up. “Book one in the Shadowveil Chronicles. Ashes of the Forgotten.”
“Sounds dramatic,” I teased.
“It is! It’s a young adult book, and the author is coming here at Christmas for a signing, well, not here, the town hall, but The Story Lantern is hosting it, and I’m re-reading the whole series so far, so I don’t look like an idiot when Mr. Sexy gets here.”
I frowned. “Mr. Sexy?”
Wesley half-closed the book and showed me the back, revealing a picture of a gorgeous, dark-blond guy on the cover.
It was fair to say that yes, he was definitely a sexy man, but he wasn’t Wesley.
He wasn’t cute like Wesley with his dark, wavy hair, and flamboyantly gorgeous; in fact, I hoped he had all the looks but was as boring as hell.
Says the professor, reading about history when I could be snuggling the cutie at my side.
“Sexy, huh?” I said, trying not to sound jealous.
“Not as sexy as the professor from next door,” Wes smiled.
“Anyway, it’s about Xander, a half-witch, and Yvaine, a necromancer’s daughter.
There’s this rift between worlds, and all the magic is bleeding out of theirs.
Lots of betrayal, doomed love, and monsters that lurk under your bed.
” He gestured excitedly with his cup. “I adore it.”
I was kind of stuck on the whole sexy-professor-from-next-door bit, but I chuckled, pulling him close. “So, while I drown in supply lines, you’re saving the world with witches.”
“Exactly,” he said with mock solemnity. “Both equally important.”
I laughed, and he nestled into my side, the storm raging outside while we lost ourselves in books and cocoa.
Wesley yawned, long and unguarded, and a moment later he yawned again, blinking sleepily.
“Bed,” I said, standing and closing the heavy book I already knew I was going to buy. He made a face but didn’t argue as he reached over and turned off the lantern.
Darkness swallowed the room, but as my eyes adjusted, I could see him—his hair loose around his face, the curve of his mouth, his smile.
Desire coiled low and sharp, warring with the nagging voice of reason whispering that I shouldn’t want this as badly as I did.
I couldn’t stop looking at him, fragile and fierce all at once, until want overrode every doubt as I stared at him in the faint light seeping through frosted panes.
It painted his face in pale shadows, turned the outlines of the store into something dreamlike.
I reached for him, tugging him against me.
He came willingly, warm and pliant in my arms, tilting his head up as though he knew what I wanted.
Our mouths met, slow at first, then deeper, his lips parting beneath mine.
I kissed him like I had all the time in the world, like I could kiss him forever, the night wrapping us in something that felt almost magical.
I had to go. I couldn’t promise him anything right now, and that wasn’t fair.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I murmured when we reached the bottom of the stairs. Wesley’s hand caught mine, his grip surprisingly strong as he tugged me to the first step.
“Don’t go,” he said, voice raw, almost breaking.
His eyes searched mine in the dim, snowy glow spilling through the windows.
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe, torn between every reason I should leave and the one reason I couldn’t—him.
I squeezed his fingers back, fighting the war inside me, and all I wanted was to stay right there, caught between his plea and my own need to give in.
“If I leave, Wes…”
“That’s a later Wes problem,” he whispered, and when he tugged me again, I went up with him.
Reality waited outside the window, beyond the snow.
The job applications, the interviews, the questions I hadn’t answered about where I belonged.
The future pressed at the edges of this small, perfect morning, reminding me it wasn’t as simple as staying here forever, no matter how much I wanted to.
“But Wes…if it is a problem?” I asked halfway up; I didn’t want to promise him things with my heart and my libido that my rational side wasn’t able to deliver.
He shook his head, “Then later-us will deal with it.”
We stumbled into his bedroom, both of us breathless.
He flicked on the overhead light but crossed to the lamp by the bed and turned the main switch off, leaving only a warm glow in the room.
The contrast revealed everything: the chaos of towering stacks of books covering every surface—paperbacks, journals with bookmarks shoved in at odd angles—all around the neatly made bed, the one oasis of order in a storm of words.
Wesley turned back to me, cheeks flushed, eyes blazing. “I want you inside me,” he said, voice low but steady.
I froze, searching his face. “Are you sure?”
He nodded without hesitation. “Yes.” Then he opened the drawer of his nightstand, pulled out a small box of condoms and a bottle of lube, and held them out to me. “I’ve been tested. PrEP. I haven’t been with anyone in forever.”
Relief and heat flooded me. I took them from his hand. “Same for me. Not since Mark and that was fuck… two years ago…” I murmured.
He smiled, almost shy. The lamplight reflected in his hair, gilding him, and my breath caught at how badly I wanted him—not just the sex, but all of him, every chaotic book pile, every sarcastic grin, every conspiracy theory, every fragile piece he tried to hide.
We moved slowly at first, lingering touches and long looks stretching the moment.
My palms mapped the lines of his body as if I were memorizing him, every shiver under my fingers pulling me closer.
His eyes locked on mine, unguarded and wanting, and I couldn’t look away as our breaths tangled and the anticipation built, both of us trembling a little, nerves and anticipation blurring into one.
I kissed him again, tasting cocoa and sweetness, and lay him back against the neat sheets while books leaned in crooked towers around us.
My fingers slid under his shirt, pushing it up, and he raised his arms so I could pull it free.
His skin was warm to touch, his chest smooth, the little scar over one nipple and the birthmark over the other catching my eye again.
I bent and kissed them both, lingering until he gasped.
The lube felt cold on my fingers, and he arched into the touch with a soft sigh, his body yielding, eager.
Every shift of his hips pushed me, small, desperate movements that sent heat racing through me.
but he shivered and sighed as I touched him, opening for me, trusting me.
I took my time, kissing him through every breath, letting him adjust until he pulled at me with desperate little noises, nails digging into my shoulders.
“Hunter, please,” he whispered, voice breaking.
“Okay, sweetheart,” I murmured, rolling the condom on with shaking hands.
I pushed in slow, inch by inch. His eyes fluttered shut, his lips parting around a moan that made my head spin.
The world shrank to just this: the heat of him, the way he clenched and relaxed, the way his thighs tightened around me as if he couldn’t let me go.
Outside, the storm felt far away, the snow muffling the world until there was nothing but us, the hush beyond the windows amplifying every sound we made.
It was calm and fierce all at once—quiet intimacy then lust—and I lost myself in the contrast, in the way the night cradled our intensity as though it belonged there.