“Good,” he says, grin flashing. “Because Zach already picked out your spot on the couch.”
“You let the dog decide?”
“He’s got better instincts than I do.” He hesitates. “Most of the time.”
I laugh again, and I feel like the world just opened up.
He takes my hand and kisses the inside of my wrist. “Come on. I’ll show you the place.”
“Right now?”
“Right now.”
The drive is short but beautiful through the foothills, cottonwoods flashing gold in the sun. The air smells like dust and pine. Zach rides in the back, head out the window, tongue wagging.
When we pull into a gravel driveway bordered by wildflowers, I stop breathing again.
The house is perfect. It’s a two-story with a wraparound porch and paint that still smells new. Wind chimes tangle in the breeze, scattering faint music. The mountains rise behind it, so beautiful and majestic.
Henry parks, kills the engine, and glances over at me. “Welcome home.”
I can’t move. “You weren’t kidding.”
He shakes his head. “Come on.”
He leads me up the steps. The door swings open with a soft creak. Inside, the space is simple and warm with hardwood floors, a stone fireplace, and sunlight pouring through wide windows. It smells faintly like cedar and coffee. And him.
Like Henry.
There’s a couch. A kitchen that looks like someone actually plans to cook. A row of shelves half-filled with books. A single mug on the counter.
I look closely. It has my name on it.
“You already—” I start.
“Got you a mug?” His smile is crooked. “I got you a toothbrush too.”
I laugh, walking through the living room. “Henry, this is…”
“Yours,” he says.
“Ours.” The word slips out before I can stop it.
He closes the space between us. “I like the sound of that.”
When he kisses me this time, it’s not desperation or goodbye or relief. It’s the staying, the choosing, the ordinary miracle of two people who finally stopped running.
We end up on the couch, tangled in each other, Zach sprawled at our feet like he’s guarding something holy.
Maybe he is.
“Still think you can handle city life?” I whisper against his mouth.
“I can handle anything,” he murmurs. “As long as it ends like this.”
“Every day?”
“Every damned day.” He presses his forehead to mine. “You know what’s funny?”
