Chapter 4
FOUR
KENDRICK
I tell myself I’m not checking the time.
I’m definitely checking the time.
Gran has been watching me do it for the better part of ten minutes while I fix the latch on her back gate. Every so often, she makes a thoughtful sound, like she’s studying a complicated puzzle. Or a mildly disappointing grandson.
“You headed somewhere tonight?” she finally asks.
“No.”
She lifts a brow. “Then why do you keep looking at your watch like it owes you money?”
“I don’t.”
“You do,” she says, reaching for a stray twig on the railing and tapping it against my boot. “And you didn’t even deny it well.”
I secure the last screw and stand, brushing off my hands. “I’m going for a walk.”
“A walk,” she repeats like she’s been handed the single least believable answer in the world. “Alone?”
“Not alone,” I hear myself say.
Her eyes go wide in that sparkly, delighted way that always leads to trouble. “Oh?”
I should lie. I should redirect. Instead, I open my mouth and spill the truth.
“I told Emma I’d take her up to Ridge Point.”
Gran leans back, crossing her arms. “Aurora’s supposed to be bright tonight.”
“I know.”
“And you invited her.”
“She asked.”
“But you said yes.”
I let out a slow breath. “Gran…”
She steps forward and pats my cheek like I’m still six years old. “Take a blanket.”
“It’s fine.”
“Kenny. Take a blanket.”
The warning tone is clear enough that I grab the one hanging on the back of the kitchen chair without another argument. Gran hides a smile behind her mug.
“Have fun,” she says.
“I’m just being helpful.”
“Mm-hm.”
“It’s not a date.”
She takes a sip of tea. “Of course not.”
I give up and leave before she can say anything else that might make my ears burn.
I pull up to Emma’s cabin just as the sun is dipping low, the sky streaked pink and gold. She steps out onto the porch with her camera bag, bundled in a dark jacket and a knit hat that has a tiny pom-pom on top.
For some reason, that detail goes straight to my chest.
“You ready?” I ask.
She nods, and her breath curls in the cold air. “Yep. I’ve been watching the forecast all day. They said there’s a strong chance the aurora will peak soon.”
“Then we should get moving.”
As she climbs into the truck, she glances at the folded blanket beside her. “What’s that for?”
“Temperature drops fast at the ridge.”
Her smile is small but bright. “Thoughtful.”
“It was Gran’s idea.”
“Still thoughtful.”
I look straight ahead so I don’t stare longer than necessary. “Let’s go.”
The trail is quiet tonight, the kind of quiet that settles deep in your bones. Our boots crunch softly over the dirt and frost, our breaths fogging in the air. The sky above us is darkening fast.
Emma walks close but not touching. Every few minutes, she lifts her camera and takes a test shot of the sky or the trees. Each time, the soft beep of her shutter draws my attention.
I’m not trying to watch her. I just keep… noticing.
“How long have you lived here?” she asks softly.
“All my life.”
“That must be nice. Being from somewhere.”
Her tone is light, but something behind it pulls at me. I slow my steps a little.
“You’re from New York?”
“Sort of,” she says. “I lived there. Worked there. Ate too many bagels there. But being from someplace and being in it aren’t always the same thing.”
There’s something in her voice—loneliness maybe, or a gap inside her she hasn’t figured out how to fill. I recognize the sound of it because I’ve had it, too.
“You got out,” I say. “Even if it’s temporary.”
“Temporary,” she repeats quietly, like she’s testing how the word feels in her mouth.
The trail opens just enough for us to walk side by side. Our arms brush once, lightly, and the contact zips through me before I can pretend it didn’t happen.
We reach the last rise, and she inhales sharply as the sky shifts—greens and faint purples beginning to unfurl like ink dropped into water.
“Oh my God,” she whispers.
I guide her up the final step onto the ridge. “Wait until it strengthens.”
She walks forward, mesmerized, and lifts her camera, breath catching as the aurora sharpens—curving, folding, shimmering against the stars.
“This is…” She shakes her head. “I don’t even have the right word.”
“Don’t need one.”
Her shutter clicks. And again. And again. But the camera isn’t what I’m watching.
It’s her—how she moves with the light, how her expression opens, how something unguarded flickers across her face like she’s seeing hope for the first time in a long time.
I don’t mean to step closer. It just happens.
She lowers the camera slowly, turning toward me as the sky glows green above her. The light catches her cheekbones, the bridge of her nose, the corner of her mouth.
“Kendrick,” she says softly.
I don’t know what she’s going to say.
I don’t care.
I reach out, cupping her jaw gently, my thumb brushing her cheek. She leans in, breath mingling with mine, and for a single heartbeat the whole world holds still.
Then she rises onto her toes.
And I meet her halfway.
The kiss is soft at first—tentative, searching—her lips warm and sure under mine. The cold air bites at my skin, but she’s heat and closeness and something I can’t name yet, something I might not want to.
I pull back barely an inch, breathing her in. “Emma…”
She shakes her head once, quietly. “Don’t apologize.”
“I’m not,” I say, my voice rougher than before. “I’m trying to be smart.”
“Do you want me to stop?”
Not even a little.
“No.”
Her fingers curl in my jacket, and I kiss her again—deeper this time, slower, letting the moment stretch around us like the sky itself is opening.
And when I pull back, my forehead rests against hers, my heart steady but changed in a way I don’t want to look at too closely.
“You should know…” I say quietly. “I don’t do temporary very well.”
Her breath hitches just slightly. “Maybe neither do I.”
We stand there under the glowing sky, two people who absolutely should not be getting tangled up in each other, already too close to pretend it’s just a passing moment.
And I know—deep down, where truth sits heavy and clear—this is not going to stay simple.
Not for either of us.