“No, baby, just yourself please.”
“Okay. God, I’ve missed you.” he hums. .
“I’ve missed you too. So excited for this weekend.”
“Me too, sunshine. Is Sunny excited?” Oh yeah, I forgot—we got a “Sunny”. Our all-white Pomsky. He sits beside me, wagging his tail furiously at the sound of Henry’s voice over the phone.
“Oh yeah, you ready for your first holiday, baby boy?” I coo, stroking his silky fur.
“Hey, sunshine?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you let me in?” Then I hear a gentle knock at the door and my heart damn near somersaults.
I run, swinging the door open to see him—the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. My Henry.
I throw myself into his arms and he catches me easily.
“You’re here,” I say, nuzzling into his neck.
“Always, sunshine.”
Henry
Two Years Later.
It’s been two year since the accident — since the rain, the sirens, the moment I thought I’d lost her forever.
Now the forest hums with life again, the trees bathed in the soft gold of a late-summer evening. The air smells of pine and wood smoke. The firepit crackles behind us.
Matilda is sitting on the porch steps wrapped in one of my old jumpers, legs tucked beneath her, hair loose and wild. She nurses a mug of wine — because she insisted wine tastes better in mugs out here.
God, she’s beautiful.
I watch her in silence, memorising the way her curls dance in the breeze, the way her nose scrunches when she smiles. It’s impossible not to think about the first time we were here — the emotions I felt, all fire and want, but unsure how to give her my heart. But tonight there’s no hesitation, no questions. Just peace. I love her with everything I possess, and no it’s not perfect, we’re not perfect, I’m certainly not perfect. But she is perfect for me.
My world.
My healing.
“Hey, baby,” she calls, glancing over her shoulder. “You look a million miles away.”
“Just thinking,” I murmur.
“Dangerous.”
I smile softly, because she’s said that before. “Not tonight.”
I step down onto the porch beside her. The wood creaks under my weight, the same familiar sound that’s been etched into my memory since childhood. We sit in quiet for a while, watching the fireflies flicker in the clearing, the world melting into twilight.
“I can’t believe it’s been a year,” she whispers. “Feels like a lifetime ago.”
I swallow hard. “I know.” My gaze drifts to her hand resting on her knee — the faint scar on her wrist where the seatbelt cut into her skin. My own reminder sits just above my temple, a thin white line that will never fade. “I didn’t think we’d make it back here.”
“But we did,” she says gently. “Together.”
She leans her head against my shoulder, and the simple act nearly breaks me.
