He looked at her then, steady and sure, no trace of hesitation in his eyes.“I’vespent enough years running.IfI’mgoing to plant roots again,Iwant to do it beside someone who makes me feel like home.”
Her breath hitched.
That word.Home.
It wasn’t about houses or towns.Itwas about belonging.Aboutbeing seen and chosen, not in spite of scars but because of them.
A slow smile broke across her face before she even realized it, her chest filling with a warmth that felt like sunlight after a long winter.
And then, before she could say a word, he kissed her.
It wasn’t rushed or fiery.Itwas careful.Certain.
A kiss twenty years in the making, and worth every lost second.
Her heart galloped as his lips pressed against hers, gentle but unshakable, as if he were reminding her they had time now.Thekind of time they once thought was stolen.Thekind of time that made every scar, every mistake, every lonely night feel like it had been leading here.
When he pulled back, her cheeks were flushed, her pulse thrumming in her ears.
“I don’t need everything figured out,” he said, his voice low, roughened by honesty.“ButIwant to build something real.Withyou.Dayby day.”
His words lingered in the air, more powerful than any promise.Hewasn’t offering perfection.Hewasn’t offering fairy tales.Hewas offering the messy, daily work of showing up.
And that, more than anything, was what she wanted.
She leaned in, kissed him again, sweet and certain.Thisone wasn’t tentative.Itwasn’t twenty years of waiting.Itwas now.Present.Chosen.
The porch swing creaked beneath them, steady as a heartbeat, and the night wrapped around them like a blessing.Somewherein the distance, a whippoorwill called, its song weaving through the hum of cicadas.
Rose pulled back just enough to look at him, her smile trembling but fierce.
“AcenWheeler,” she said, her voice thick with everything she hadn’t dared to hope, “you’re about to make this porch swing the luckiest seat inPickwickBend.”
He laughed, soft and easy, the sound vibrating through her chest where they touched.
And somewhere between the creak of the porch swing and the call of the whippoorwill in the distance,RoseMcAllisterrealized love wasn’t about reclaiming the past.
It was about choosing the future—boldly, and with both hands.
And whenAcen’shand closed over hers, strong and warm, she knew she wasn’t choosing alone.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Regional finals day.
Rose took a deep breath and refused to think about pop flies and how they’d ruined it for the team last year.Thiswas a different year.Withnew beginnings, and she intended to take the trophy this time.
Meanwhile, she was on the softball field with the team, tossing practice balls and trying to act normal.
“You need to swing through the pitch,Maggie, not at it like it insulted your mama’s casserole,” she called.
The women laughed, and for a few glorious minutes, her stress lifted like a cloud moving away from the sun.Thisteam.Thesewomen.Theywould give their all to win.Andthat was all she needed today.
Acen was watching from the bleachers, sipping from a thermos and smiling every timeRoseshouted instructions.
When practice wrapped, he walked out onto the field, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
“You were born to coach,” he said.
