Chapter 14
Hunter
By the time we spilled out of BB’s Diner, the night had quieted, snow soft underfoot, and the glow of Main Street lanterns casting a golden shimmer over everything.
The diner door shut with a rush of warmth and laughter, leaving only muffled voices inside.
My ears still rang with Bailey’s speech, Kai’s announcement, and the chaos of trying to eat while Willow stole food off every plate within reach.
Wes walked close beside me, grinning, flushed with the kind of happiness that radiated even into the cold air. I carried the leftovers Bailey had insisted we take, but all I could think about was how much I didn’t want the night to end.
We cut across the square, his shoulder brushing mine every few steps, and though I tried to keep in a straight line, part of me leaned into him without thinking. The quiet closeness made the air hum, small touches saying what words couldn’t as we headed toward his bookstore
He tilted his head up at me. “The Haynes family are amazing, aren’t they?”
“They are,” I admitted. And they were. Loud, chaotic, full of love—the kind of family that made my chest ache with something I couldn’t name.
Wes glanced sideways at me. “One day, I’d love that. Kids, the chaos. It’s messy and loud and…” His smile turned wistful. “It feels like joy.”
The thought caught me off guard. My throat worked before I could answer. “Yeah. Me too. Someday. I’m just… not sure where it fits, you know? Life plans. Tenure. Moving around.”
He didn’t push, simply nodded, and the conversation drifted as we climbed the stairs to his apartment.
The smallest supper ever was late, but the candlelight softened the cluttered little room, painting Wes’s face in gold and shadow.
It felt absurdly intimate, as if we were the only two people in the world.
Leftovers, with crackers and cheese, eaten by candlelight at his small table with a quirky playlist spilling softly from his speakers—one minute a sweeping violin piece, the next a guilty-pleasure pop anthem, then a Christmas song, and back again to something classical.
Somehow, it felt more perfect than any carefully planned meal I’d ever sat through.
Mariah had stopped singing about Christmas, and the playlist lurched into something orchestral when my phone buzzed against the table and lit up the darker room.
My inbox glared up at me—an email from LA, flagged and waiting.
On Thanksgiving? My stomach dropped. I flipped the screen face down before Wes could catch the subject line.
He had to have seen the inbox—of course, he had—but he didn’t push to know what it was.
I should’ve been excited to look. It might be an interview date—probably was, given the way the preliminary chats had gone.
Everyone had been positive, encouraging, making it sound like it was only a matter of time.
And yet… gah. I didn’t want to shatter this moment, this spell Wesley cast on me with his ridiculous playlists, his candlelight, his books piled like towers of chaos all around us.
I didn’t want LA intruding on this fragile, impossible kind of perfect.
“Want to know what I’m thankful for?”
“Go on,” I said, wary but curious.
“The Story Lantern. Wishing Tree. And maybe…” His grin wobbled, shy and sincere all at once. “Maybe you.”
I swallowed hard. “I’m thankful for your chaos,” I blurted before I could stop myself.
“My chaos?” He arched a brow.
“Yeah. For making me smile.”
“Glad to be of service,” he said with a wink, and then stood, leaned over, kissed me, and held out a hand.
“Dance with me.” His words knocked the air out of me.
My chest tightened, because it was ridiculous and tender all at once, and for a heartbeat, I almost said no.
But the way he looked at me—hopeful, vulnerable, shining—made it impossible.
I wanted him, wanted this, even if it felt absurd. So, I took his hand.
I laughed, because it was ridiculous—“Last Christmas” drifting from the speakers, all synths and nostalgia—but I still stood.
Wes slid into me without hesitation, fitting perfectly to my chest, his head tucked under my chin, our joined hands warm between us.
He settled there with a sigh, as if I was exactly where he wanted to be.
We swayed, not really in time, not really caring. It wasn’t about the dance, not the music, not the mismatched rhythm of our steps. It was about this—about holding on, about not letting go, about pretending for just a little while that the world outside didn’t matter.
Neither of us said the word future. But it lingered between us all the same, sharp and fragile.
“Stay tonight,” Wes whispered, and there was a raw vulnerability in his voice that made my chest ache. He was asking for more than company—he was asking me not to leave him behind, not tonight, maybe not ever.
“Of course,” I said, my throat tight. The words came out rough, but I meant them. I wasn’t sure I’d ever meant anything more.
Wes shifted against me, blinking sleepily up with that sweet, crooked smile that undid me every damn time. His palm rested on my chest, fingers curling lightly, and I bent to kiss him. He sighed into me, opening so easily, and suddenly the air between us was charged as we headed for his bedroom.
I touched him as if he might break, tracing the line of his jaw, the sweep of his hair, learning him with my hands as much as my mouth.
His sweater came off in a messy tangle, mine following, and soon we were pressed together, skin to skin, every line of him molding to me.
He was beautiful—eyes dark with want, breath catching on a quiet laugh when I kissed the hollow of his throat, body arching as if he’d been waiting for this as long as I had.
We didn’t rush. Every kiss lingered, and when I finally slid into him, he whispered my name, clutching at me as if I were something precious. I held his gaze, and his hand trembled against my cheek as I kissed him through every gasp, until he came apart beneath me, and I followed.
After, we lay tangled together, his head on my chest, he curled closer, as if he could climb right inside me and never leave. His voice was blurred by sleep.
“Don’t leave.”
I’d already promised I’d stay tonight. But that wasn’t what he meant, and we both knew it. My chest tightened, words trapped in my throat. So, I kissed his hair instead, holding him tighter, hoping that for now, in this small corner of time, it was enough.
Wes was warm, breathing even, already asleep, but I lay wide awake with the glow of my phone still burned into my eyes.
Interview confirmed. December 14, 11 a.m.
A Sunday? 7 a.m. LA time? Jeez.
First, an email received on Thanksgiving, then to read the date and time—a Sunday?
—as if time zones, holidays, mornings, and nights didn’t mean a damn thing to them.
Hell, maybe they didn’t to me either. Not when the promise of tenure or the chance to claw my way back into academia was on the table.
Schedules bent for that kind of opportunity.
I used to bend with them, never caring if it was midnight or dawn, weekday or weekend. Work first. Always work.
But lying there with Wes curled into me, his breath warm on my chest, the whole idea was surreal. Like a career on the West Coast belonged to another version of me, one who hadn’t learned the sound of Wesley’s laugh or the way he mumbled in his sleep about goats and lanterns.
Sleep was a long time coming. My brain wouldn’t slow, questions circling like vultures. Did I tell him? Did I wait? Did I even want this the way I thought I did? I shoved the thoughts aside, tried to focus on the steady weight of him, the comfort of his hand fisted in my T-shirt.
Later, I told myself. I’d think about it later.
Eventually, exhaustion dragged me under
I’d deal with all of this in the morning.
But it wasn’t any easier when we woke up and I watched Wes bustle around as if he hadn’t turned my world upside down by existing.
His sweater slipped off one shoulder, his long dark hair a mess of waves, his bare feet padding across the worn rug—and it hit me, sharp and dangerous, how easy this felt.
What if every morning started like this? Coffee in mismatched mugs. He hummed while he tripped over piles of books. I pretended to grumble, secretly loving every second. No interview schedules, no frantic job market, no pressure to prove myself to people who barely knew my name. Just us. Here.
The thought lodged deep, both sweet and suffocating.
Because that wasn’t reality. Reality was the flagged email waiting on my phone. Reality was tenure-track interviews, five- and ten-year plans, chasing the permanence I’d lost. And no matter how much I wanted this—him—I couldn’t build a future on candle stubs and secondhand book piles.
I dragged my gaze back to him, smiling and ignoring the fact that I’d spiraled myself into a corner. “You’re too cheerful in the mornings.”
He smirked, sliding into the chair opposite me. “And you’re too grumpy. Balance.”
I let him believe that, because for a moment it was easier than admitting how badly I wanted what I shouldn’t.
Then Wes leaned across the table without warning and stole my mug, taking a long sip as though it belonged to him. He made a face—half grimace, half challenge—and shoved it back at me.
“God, Hunter, how do you drink that? It’s like despair in liquid form.”
I snorted, tension breaking like a snapped string. “That’s the point. Strong, bitter, gets the job done.”
“More like strong, bitter, and actively trying to kill my taste buds,” he shot back, and grabbed his own froufrou mug protectively, curling both hands around it as if it were holy.
I shook my head, fighting a smile I didn’t want him to see. He had no idea how easily he pulled me out of my own head, how his ridiculous commentary cut through everything else.
“Maybe I should fix you,” he mused, eyes twinkling as he cradled his froufrou cup. “A cinnamon stick, maybe. A drizzle of caramel. Or whipped cream. Something to sweeten you up.”
“I don’t need sweetening,” I muttered.
He grinned wickedly. “Says the man who drinks liquid despair for breakfast. One swirl of whipped cream and you’d be unstoppable. Imagine it—Hunter McCoy, approachable professor. Students wouldn’t run for cover.”
“Terrifying,” I deadpanned, but he was already on his feet, rifling through the refrigerator. He came back waving a can of whipped cream like a prize.
“Say the word, professor, and I’ll make your coffee magical.”
I groaned, but couldn’t help laughing, and when he leaned over me, brandishing the can, I caught his wrist and tugged him into my lap instead. His surprised laugh was muffled, warm and close, and something in the air shifted—teasing giving way to something steadier.
His laugh still rumbled when I tipped my head, catching his mouth before either of us could think better of it. The can of whipped cream thunked to the floor, forgotten.
The kiss wasn’t frantic this time. It was slow, deliberate, as if we both knew how close we stood to unraveling. His lips were warm, tasting of cinnamon and sugar, and he melted against me as though he’d been waiting for the excuse.
I cupped the back of his neck, thumb brushing the loose strands of his hair, and he sighed into me—a gentle and shivery sound that made my chest ache.
For a few perfect seconds, there was no LA, no deadlines, no inheritance clock ticking down.
Just Wes, ridiculous and radiant in my lap, kissing me like he meant it.
When we broke apart, his grin was crooked, breath hitching. “Told you I could sweeten you up,” he whispered.
I pressed my forehead to his, trying to ignore how much I wanted him.
How much I wanted quiet mornings with teasing and kisses and more.