He slings an arm over her shoulders and kisses her forehead. She leans into him, hoping he doesn’t notice how deep of a breath she takes through her nose. God, he smells so good.

At the midway point, they stop at a wooden bench with a gold dedication plaque. It’s stationed right in front of what appears to be an entrance that leads straight into a denser woodland area. It’s so thick with stick-thin saplings, flourishing ground plants and bushes, and trees with trunks bigger than Joy, it’s only possible to see a few feet inside.

Won’t be going in there. Nope.

Fox sits down, and so does Joy, except sideways to keep an eye on that entrance. That’s absolutely where Hansel and Gretel went to get eaten. Trail or not, willingly going that way is no different than flat-out asking for the universe to test your will to live.

“Any word on how the festival went?”

“Malcolm came to my room last night—”

“He did?”

“Yeah, he does that all the time. Anyway, I asked, and he said something like it didn’t go the way he expected it to. Have you talked to Summer?”

“No.” Fox takes a sip of his tea. “This is just a question: You think it’s perfectly fine and platonic that he goes to your room every night?”

“All we do is talk, so yes.”

“Hmm.”

“You don’t think it’s okay?”

“Just a question. Not a judgment, Joy.”

“Okay, I’m going to lose it if I don’t say it: you’re thinking, and I can see it, so just come out with it.” Joy swats at a bug that flies too close to her face. “Come on.”

Fox actually laughs. “Sometimes I’m not thinking about anything. I pretend like I am to see what you’ll do.”

“You diabolical dick.” She kisses his cheek to let him know she doesn’t mean it.

He laughs again. “This time I am—thinking, not a dick. You two bother me.”

Joy’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “Me and Malcolm?” He nods and she asks, “Why?”

Fox exhales into a sigh. He raises his head, looking at the sky and frowning before his gaze lands back into his cup of tea. His lips twitch, either ready or reluctant to speak. Joy can’t tell which it is.

“You love him,” he says through nearly clenched teeth.

Reluctance, Joy decides. He really didn’t want to say that.

“Yes.” Keeping it simple feels best. No qualifiers necessary.

“He loves you.”

“Yes.”

“And is in love with you.”

“No.”

“Yes.” He turns to her so quickly, so exasperated, and insistent with his furrowed brow and grumpy line between them on display. Frustration and confusion are written all over his face.