“And the mom?” I ask, surprising myself with how much I want to hear the rest.
She smiles, her gaze turning inward as if she’s seeing the scene unfold right in front of her. “The mom’s upstairs, finally sleeping in because it’s her one morning to herself. And when she comes down, the whole family’s there—messy, sticky, and so damn proud of themselves.” She shrugs, her smile tinged withsomething shy and unguarded. “I don’t know. It’s just a kitchen, but I can see it.”
Her words settle in the air, weaving a picture so tangible I feel like I’m standing in the middle of it. Laughter, warmth, the kind of love that makes a place more than just walls and furniture.
She moves into the living room next, her camera swaying lightly against her chest as she gestures toward the open, airy space. “And here,” she continues, her voice softening, “this is where everyone would gather—friends, family, even the kind of strangers who somehow feel like they belong. Music playing, something upbeat, laughter spilling everywhere. Probably that one uncle who’s had a few too many beers, laughing louder than everyone else.”
“Sounds crowded,” I tease, though something inside me shifts at the picture she’s creating, filling the quiet with a kind of fullness I didn’t know I was missing.
“Crowded in the best way,” she counters, her eyes glinting with a quiet hope. “The kind of crowded that reminds you you’re never really alone.”
Her steps slow as she approaches the sliding doors leading to the deck. She stops, gazing out at the lake. The water glimmers in the fading sunlight, and for a second, it feels like even the trees are holding their breath.
“And then there’s this,” she says, almost to herself. “The lake, the pool . . . it’s so perfect it doesn’t even feel real.”
She pushes the door open and steps outside, the breeze catching a loose strand of her hair, lifting it like the moment wants to claim it for itself. “You could have the most romantic evenings out here,” she says, her voice dropping to something softer, more intimate. “Candles on the deck, the sound of the water lapping against the shore, stars so bright they look like they’re trying to outshine each other.”
I lean against the doorframe, unable to take my eyes off her. “You’ve got it all planned out, haven’t you?” My voice comes out lighter than I feel, masking the way her words seem to be digging into some long-buried part of me.
She turns back to me, her expression soft but serious, as if she’s weighing her words before offering them. “Not planned,” she says quietly. “This is the first time I’ve been in this house, but I feel it, you know?”
After taking a breath she says, “Close your eyes, feel the possibilities.”
For a moment, I don’t know what to say. The way she sees this place, this life—it’s so vivid, so unapologetically full of hope—it makes me wonder if I’ve been looking at everything wrong.
“Why are you telling me all this?” I ask finally, my voice quieter than I intended.
“Because,” she says simply, “I think this place deserves a story. A good one. And . . .” She hesitates, her words trailing off before she looks back at the lake. “Maybe I don’t know.”
Maybe I could be the one to write it. Maybe we could write it.
The thought comes out of nowhere, sudden and startling, and I push it aside just as quickly. I just met her. This is ridiculous.
I watch her as she lifts her camera to her eye, her focus shifting to the lake. The soft sound of the shutter clicks through the stillness, as if she’s already capturing something I can’t see. Something magical.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Haydn
“I exploredthe house with her, room by room, following her as she traced her fingers along the walls, pointing out places she thought would one day hold memories,” I continue my story. “The kitchen. The terrace. The room she wanted to turn into a small studio, filled with light.
“And while she wasn’t watching, I did it. I closed my eyes and saw it,” I say, pausing to take a steadying breath. Even now, I’m afraid to hold on too tightly to that image, afraid it’ll slip through my fingers after today. But it’s still there, as vivid as it was that day. I close my eyes again, just for a second, and I see it. Her and me, older but still stupidly in love. Kids—four of them—because we’d need balance.
I glance at Keane looking like a broken fragment of the man she once loved, and my chest tightens with something I can’t quite name. “She claims I smashed her walls, but she did it first, you know? She broke through mine. Opened me up. Made me believe in something I never thought I’d have. And I fell for her. Fell so fucking hard.”
“I hope you work hard to get better,” I say, my voice low, each word clipped and deliberate. “And I hope you get the fuck out of our lives soon.”
With one last glance, I salute him with a flick of my hand and leave, shutting the door behind me.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Keane
I watchHaydn Wesford leave the room. He wants me out? Hey, I want the fuck out of here too, but you know what? I’m taking her with me.
If I’m piecing together everything people have been saying, she’s mine. So no, he can’t have her and I’ll fucking leave soonerthan later so that he won’t even get used to me. And when I do go, I’m taking Ophelia with me.
Mine.
