Emma
The silver star caught the faint glow of moonlight as Tommy fastened the chain behind my neck, his fingers brushing the back of my skin with such careful gentleness it made me shiver. I touched the pendant with the tips of my fingers, tracing its edges like it was something impossibly fragile.
"My North Star," he said softly, his voice catching like he hadn't meant for me to hear it aloud.
I looked up at him, and in that moment I didn't care about words. I leaned forward and kissed him, not with urgency but with quiet certainty, a promise sealed on my lips. His hand came to rest against my cheek, warm, steady, and everything inside me stilled.
When I pulled back, the woods around us felt alive — the whisper of leaves, the chorus of crickets, the far-off rush of water on the lake's edge. We were part of it all, stitched into the night as though the world had always meant for us to be here.
The chocolate sat between us, its wrapper crinkled from where I'd opened it. I broke off a piece and handed it to him, laughing when he shook his head like he was too proud to take it. "Don't look at me like that," I teased. "I'm sharing whether you like it or not."
His lips curved reluctantly, and he took the piece, letting it melt slowly before he said, "Better than the sandwiches?"
I rolled my eyes. "Much better."
We sat close, shoulders brushing, sharing chocolate in small, quiet intervals, as though stretching it out might stretch the night too. I wanted it to last forever, this gentle warmth that pooled between us.
But the truth pressed at me — morning was coming, and with it, my family's departure.
I lay back on the blanket, the North Star cool against my skin, and looked up through the branches at the scattered stars above us. For a long time, we were silent, just breathing the same air, watching the night shift.
"Can I ask you something?" I said at last, my voice barely louder than the rustle of leaves.
"Anything," he said.
I turned my head toward him, studying his profile in the dim light. His expression was softer than I'd ever seen, a mix of calm and tension, like he was balancing between what he wanted and what he feared.
"How are you so different from them?"
He blinked, caught off guard. "Different?"
"Your parents," I said quietly. "They look at people like my family as if we're… beneath them. Disposable. But you're not like that at all. You're… kind. You notice things. You care." I hesitated, the words heavy on my tongue. "How did you end up so different?"
For a moment, he didn't answer. He just stared upward, jaw tight, as though searching for the right stars to guide him. Then, finally, he exhaled.
"I don't know if I am different," he said slowly. "I just… can't stand the way they treat people. Even when I was little, I noticed it. The way my father speaks to the gardener, or how my mother dismisses the cleaner like she doesn't exist. It's always bothered me. They act like wealth makes them more important somehow, but I've never believed that. If anything, I think it makes them less."
I held my breath, listening.
He turned his head toward me then, eyes dark and steady.
"When I'm with you, Emma, it feels real. Not measured in money or status or expectation. Just… us. And I can't imagine trading that for the way they live, even if they think it's everything."
My throat tightened, and I had to swallow hard before I could speak. "Do you ever wish you weren't a Whitmore?"
"Yes," he said, without hesitation. Then, softer: "But then I think — if I weren't, I might never have found you."
The weight of his words pressed into me like a secret I wanted to keep forever. I blinked fast, fighting back tears, and turned my face away, pretending to focus on the stars.
"Don't say things like that," I whispered. "It makes leaving even harder."
He reached for my hand then, threading his fingers through mine, and the simple touch was enough to undo me. I squeezed back, clinging to the warmth of him, the steadiness.
"I don't want you to leave," he said, and for the first time there was no restraint in his voice, just raw honesty. "I know you have to, but — Emma, I don't want you to go."
I pressed my lips together, because if I opened my mouth, I knew the tears would come. Instead, I shifted closer, resting my head against his chest, listening to the thrum of his heartbeat.
We stayed like that for hours, whispering small things —childhood memories, silly jokes, half-dreams we barely admitted aloud. He told me about sneaking into the school library, not to read the law books, but the adventure stories tucked on the bottom shelf. I told him about falling into the stream when I was seven and Teddy laughing so hard he couldn't breathe. We traded pieces of ourselves as though they were treasures, precious and rare.
Every time I lifted my head to look at him, I could feel the air taut with the question of whether we would cross that line.
Sometimes we did — a soft kiss, slow and lingering, a brush of lips that said everything we didn't dare put into words. Other times, we just held the space between us, letting the ache of restraint become its own kind of intimacy.
The hours bled together, the night thinning into something fragile. Dew clung to the grass around us, the air cooler, sharper. My eyes burned with tiredness, but I refused to close them, terrified I'd lose a single second of him.
At some point, I must have drifted half-asleep against his chest, because when I opened my eyes again, the first threads of dawn were weaving through the trees. The sky was paling, the stars retreating, and the North Star at my throat felt suddenly heavier, like it carried not just our night, but all the weight of our promises.
Tommy brushed my hair from my face, his touch feather-light. "Morning's coming," he murmured.
I nodded, my throat too tight to speak.
Neither of us moved. Not yet. We stayed there, suspended in that delicate, impossible place where time felt like it could stretch forever. His arms tightened around me, protective and steady, and I let myself sink into him one more time.
We hadn't said the word love, but it hung between us, thick and undeniable. In the silence, in the touch of his hand, in the North Star resting against my skin, it was all there — unspoken, but truer than anything I'd ever known.
And when sunlight broke the horizon, I knew the night was over. But I also knew this: no matter where tomorrow took me, no matter how far Hull or the world beyond might be, a part of me would always belong to him.