I slip into the crevice of the tree, praying my face doesn't meet a spiderweb like last time. One ambush was enough. It was the kind of sticky, invisible horror that makes you question your will to live—and for a solid week afterward, every brush of my hair had me convinced I was being attacked by ghost spiders.
Mentally preparing for round two, I duck low—
And freeze.
A voice, low and familiar, cuts through the silence like a blade:
"Didn't your parents ever warn you not to meet strange men in the woods at night?"
I nearly launched myself out of my skin.
The scream that claws up my throat gets muffled by sheer instinct—I slap my hands over my mouth and stumble backward, heart detonating in my chest.
The lantern light flickers in the hollow, creating shadows on the familiar bark. I hadn't even noticed it was lit. I'd been too caught up in my own mental horror reel.
And now there's someone in my hideout.
I try to step back, but my foot catches on a pillow, and gravity wins. I go down hard—forward, not backward—and crash directly into someone solid, warm, and very much real.
Will.
Of course, it's him.
His arms wrap around me without hesitation, like this is the most natural thing in the world. Like he was waiting for this exact moment.
My brain short-circuits.
I'm half-sprawled across his chest, trying to remember how to breathe, while he looks at me with that maddening half-smirk of his like I'm the one who broke into his safe space.
What the hell is he doing here?
And more importantly—
"Whoa—I got you."
Will's voice is low and steady, like gravity itself. His hands catch me at the waist before I hit the ground, strong hands anchoring me as my fingers find his forearms, clinging to the heat of him.
He pulls me upright, slow and deliberate, until we're standing face-to-face, barely inches between us. His breath is warm against my cheek. The world narrows, contracts, until it's just the flicker of lantern light and the sound of our hearts pounding in sync.
Then—he moves.
Will bends his head toward mine, his hand sliding to the small of my back, guiding me forward in one fluid motion.
And then he kisses me.
No hesitation.
No asking.
Just everything.
I start to pull away—out of shock, instinct, anything—but he holds me like I'm something sacred. And God help me, I fall for him. Melt into the heat and hunger and history of a kiss that doesn't ask—it remembers.
When I part my lips to breathe, he interprets it as consent—or perhaps a plea—and intensifies the kiss, his tongue grazing mine as if asserting what has always belonged to him.
He tastes like fire and rain and something older than we are. Like he's breathing me in, tasting a life he lost and finally found again.
Will is stealing my breath—but if this is how I die, then so be it. Let the world end right here, with his mouth on mine and the stars collapsing above us.
Because this is how a first kiss should feel.
Not gentle. Not shy.
But seismic.
Cosmic.
Like the universe paused just to watch it happen.
I kiss him back harder, desperate and full of something I don't understand. His breath hitches—he groans softly against my lips—and I bite his bottom one without thinking, a low growl slipping from my throat.
My hands glide up his arms, over the tense curve of his biceps, feeling him flex beneath my touch like he's trying not to lose control. His hands roam, reverent and reckless, branding me with every place they pass.
I reach his shoulders—solid, strong, a battlefield of muscle—and then his neck, where I grip tight, grounding myself in him.
He slips one hand down, cupping the curve of my ass, lifting my leg to wrap around his waist. His touch traces fire up my thigh as he presses me deeper into him—into this moment—into us.
When he finally releases my leg, I'm still burning.
Every part of me is alive.
Lit.
Changed.
He's awakened something in me that feels terrifyingly eternal. Something no one's ever touched—not James, not anyone.
This is more than lust.
More than timing.
This is recognition.
A soul remembering another.
We break the kiss only when our lungs demand it—foreheads pressed together, chests heaving, mouths still so close it's like we haven't truly let go.
Will breathes me in, his hands still on my waist, and leans back against the inside of the tree, head tilted, eyes closed.
I touch my lips, stunned.
Shaken.
Transformed.
What the hell just happened?
Where the hell did he come from?
That was more than just a simple kiss.
That was an awakening.
And I may never be the same.
Will doesn't move right away.
His chest rises and falls like he's been holding that breath for years.
And maybe… he has.
His voice is barely a whisper, more confession than comment.
"You taste like every prayer I whispered in the dark and never thought was heard."
My brows knit, heart still hammering. "What… does that even mean?"
He doesn't answer.
Instead, he opens his eyes—and for a moment, I swear they're glowing. Not bright. Not blinding. Just… a flicker. It resembles a shimmer of something otherworldly, akin to starlight caught in a tempestuous storm.
It fades so fast I almost convince myself I imagined it.
Almost.
The wind stirs outside the tree, sudden and sharp, rustling the moss like a warning. The lantern flame flickers violently behind him, though there's no draft.
The ground beneath us hums—not loud, not shaking—just a low thrum, like something old and buried has begun to stir.
I feel it in my chest.
In my bones.
In the hollow place behind my ribs that's never been filled.
Will turns his face toward the open tree entrance, jaw clenched like he's listening to something I can't hear.
"Something's changing," he murmurs, almost to himself. "Too soon."
I step back, pulse thrumming. "Will… what's going on?"
He really looks at me, and for the first time tonight, he doesn't smirk, tease, or flirt.
He looks wrecked.
Like someone on the edge of a cliff, they can't step back from it.
Then he says, softly, like a vow already made—
"They'll come for you now. You've awakened it."