Page 102 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

“Logan,” I say. He groans again at the sound of his name on my lips, unrestrained in a way that washes over me in glittering waves.

We move together rhythmically, each stroke drawing quivering breaths out of my lungs. Sensation builds and deepens, steadies into something wordless and inevitable. The sound of it—our breaths, my heartbeat, the quiet creak of metal—feels like the only thing left in the world. And when his next breath stutters and his hips follow the movement, it rips an explosion out of me so intense I nearly cry out.

When the vibrations finish passing through me, I lower my forehead to Logan’s shoulder and rest against him, our inhales and exhales falling into the same slow pattern. His thumb traces a path through my damp hair, a small, grounding gesture. He kisses my cheek, my temple. Outside, everything is misted and blurred.

“Now,” he says gently, “I think we get out of the truck.”

But I shake my head into his shirt. Not only because I feel so limp that I’m not currently sure I can stand, but also because, out there, the night breathlessly waits with everything we’ve postponed. In the safety of this cab, the air is thick with warmth and stillness—the kind that can only exist right before everything changes.

Right now, I want to hold on to this moment forever.

Like a frozen bubble on the edge of a lake. A river stilled to silence.

A crystal pear.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Our days hang suspended like dust motes catching the light—twinkling, turning, and unthinkably still. Each moment I’m caught between yesterday and tomorrow, as if underwater or half asleep.

The night we get back from Maplehurst, Logan and I sip wine on the porch and watch the sunset melt from gold to violet, lingering until we’re shivering because even a stack of blankets isn’t enough to stave off the mountain chill. When I close my eyes, I can almost believe this is ordinary, impossibly mundane, just another night in a long stretch of nights that we’ll have together. In my bed, Logan kisses me and holds me close and my chest aches with something that feels too big for pleasure.

Morning arrives with soft, pale light spilling through the curtains and the faint tick of the coffee maker beginning its slow percolation. I find Logan barefoot beside the machine, sweatpants low on his hips, fingers splayed wide beside a closed book.

When our eyes meet, Logan smiles softly and—

Oh.

It’s you.

I round the counter so I can circle my arms around his waist, latch my hands together, and rest my chin on his firm shoulder. The warmth of his body seeps into my chest. Solid. Still here.

From this angle, I can see the book is actually a sketchbook—larger than the ones I remember from when we were teens.

“Mason gave it to me,” he says. “Before we left Maplehurst.”

“Are you going to use it?”

He tips his temple, touching mine. “It’s a big part of who I was.”

Somehow, I hear what he doesn’t say. Is it still a part of who he’s going to be?

Later, Val comes by to check in on the pears. Even before she digs the pressure gauge from her pocket, I can feel something is different. Maybe it’s because of the color rising in the fruit, now a green that reminds me of moss clinging to the north side of a damp stone wall.

“Something’s off,” I guess as she lumbers down her tree ladder holding a marked pear.

She studies her piece of fruit, thumb brushing over a dark bruise. “Seems they stopped ripening.”

I lean closer to see the reading. “Like they won’t be ready by the end of the month?”

Val nods, lips pressed.

“But it’s always been September thirtieth,” I protest in stunned disbelief. “Every season for five generations. You can set your watch to it.”

At my expression, an uneasy smile ghosts her face. She squeezes my shoulder. “No luck breaking the curse, then?”

My stomach sinks at her nonanswer. “Like you said,” I tell her softly, “Uncle Martin tried for years. I don’t think we were going to figure it out in a few days.”

She purses her lips, looking like she’s regretting her own words.