The afternoon sun was golden, pouring through the canopy of leaves above you, scattering warm light across the soft patch of grass beneath the tree. A light breeze tugged at the edge of the picnic blanket, carrying with it the sweet scent of apples and wildflowers.

Jacks lay with his head in your lap, one arm lazily draped across his stomach, his golden hair catching the sunlight in that careless, maddeningly beautiful way it always did. His eyes were closed, but you knew he wasn’t asleep. There was too much tension in his jaw for that, even if he looked calm.

You smiled, brushing your fingers through his hair, then reached into the little basket beside you.

“Here,” you said, holding out a glossy red apple.

He cracked open one eye, saw the fruit, and groaned dramatically. “You’re trying to kill me.”

You laughed. “It’s an apple, Jacks.”

He tilted his head to look at you fully, smirking like a man truly suffering. “I hate apples.”

“But you always eat them.”

“Exactly,” he said, pushing himself up just enough to bite into it anyway, chewing with a look of such exaggerated misery that you had to stifle another laugh. “Years of them. Tart, sweet, red, green. I’m done.”

You reached down and took the half-eaten fruit from his hand, placing it aside. “Can I ask you something?”

He turned slightly, resting on one elbow to face you. “Anything.”

You gave him a look. “What was the deal with the apples?”

His expression shuttered. Not quite a frown, but a soft retreat into whatever was still hidden behind those too-blue eyes. “That’s not important.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That means it is important.”

“I said ‘anything,’ not that I’d answer.”

You poked his chest, half annoyed, half teasing. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re nosy,” he murmured, catching your wrist gently, pulling you closer.

You didn’t fight it. He tugged again, guiding you down until your face was hovering above his, your hair falling around both of you like a curtain. You barely had time to react before his hand slid to the back of your neck and his mouth captured yours.

The kiss was slow at first, deliberate—soft lips brushing against yours like he was savoring the moment before claiming it. Then his tongue traced the seam of your lips, coaxing them apart, deepening the kiss with practiced ease. It was warm and tasting faintly of apple, his mouth moving against yours with a hunger that stole your breath. His other hand rested lightly on your waist, fingers curling ever so slightly as if he needed to remind himself that you were real.