His eyes drop to my lips for just a second. I close the gap before my brain can overrule my body. My hand finds the front of his shirt, fists the fabric, and pulls him down to me. His lips meet mine and move with confidence, warm and sure and a little bit reckless, the way he does everything, and it feels so damn good.
I pull back first. Not because I want to, but because I need to breathe, and also because if I keep kissing him, I’m going to do something stupid like climb him in the middle of a firefly clearing.
His eyes are wide, and for once in his life, he doesn’t have a witty comeback ready. Lips parted, chest rising and falling fast, staring at me like I just told him the earth is flat and proved it.
“Don’t,” I say, pointing a finger at his face.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t say anything. Don’t make it a thing. Don’t compose a sonnet. Don’t tell the others.”
His mouth twitches. “Can I at least breathe?”
“Debatable.”
He lets out a shaky laugh, running a hand through his curls. “Blueberry, you just kissed me.”
“I’m aware.”
“You kissed me.”
“I’m already regretting it.”
“No, you’re not.”
He’s right. I’m not. And it’s taking all of my willpower not to do it again.
“We should head back.”
He nods. “Yeah, probably should. Wouldn’t want the others to think I’ve stolen you away for good.”
I glance at him as we walk, and he catches me looking and smiles. Not his usual cocky grin, but something softer.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing.” I look away to hide the blush rising in my cheeks. “Just making sure you don’t get us lost.”
“I never get lost.” He bumps his shoulder against mine. “I just take scenic detours.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling again.
The smile fades almost as soon as I feel it.
I’m happy. For the first time in years, I’m genuinely happy.
And it absolutely terrifies me.
Happiness is dangerous. Happiness makes you soft. Happiness makes you forget to watch the shadows, to check the exits, to keep one hand on a weapon at all times.
Happiness gets you killed.
I think about my mother, who was happy until the new alpha arrived.
I think about Sophie, who smiled, laughed, and believed things would be okay. Right up until the moment they crushed her throat.
I think about sixteen-year-old Mo, who was happy for exactly one month before the world taught her that happiness is a lie that predators tell you right before they strike.
I slow my steps, and the warmth of the fireflies and Elias’s kiss drains out of me so fast it makes me sick.