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She beams, the kind of smile that makes you feel like falling might be worth it.
And I’ve already told her yes. She asked me to spend one of my last days in town with her and dared me to leap off a literal cliff. Of course, I said yes.
The girl’s got wings, and I’m still standing on the edge, trying to unlearn fear.
And I follow. Of course I do.
She’s wrong. It’s the easiest thing I’ve ever done. Loving her feels like muscle memory. Like something I was built for.
It’s easy. Familiar. Like kissing her is just something my mouth has always known how to do.
She stares at me. Blinks rapidly. Malfunctions a little. “Oh my God,” she breathes. “Did you just openly flirt with me?” “No,” I say, deadpan. “I just offered to medically examine your upper thigh. Completely professional.” “Luca’s first sexual emergency pun,” she teases, but her cheeks are pink.
I reach up aimlessly and grip the little handle above the window—what even is that thing, the oh-shit bar? Yeah. That tracks.
LUCA PLS 😭
breaking apart in my arms like the first streak of sunlight after a storm. Soft, golden, dazzling in a way that makes you forget it ever rained.
“Fucking golden hour,” I murmur, mouth pressed to her temple. “Right here in my lap.”
Harper St. James has officially turned me reckless. And I don’t even mind.
