"Wait until you see the rest."
"There's more?"
"There's definitely more." He pulls back, eyes bright with something that looks like nervous excitement. "Actually, there's something I need to show you."
Before I can respond, he's out of bed, pulling on a pair of track pants, no t-shirt with efficient movements.
Then he's reaching for me, tugging me up.
"Nate, I'm not dressed?—"
"You're perfect." He hands me his flannel shirt from yesterday.
I slip it on, the fabric soft and smelling like him, hanging to mid-thigh. He takes my hand, leads me into the hallway.
We pass two other bedrooms, a bathroom, and then he stops in front of a closed door at the end of the hall.
"Close your eyes," he says.
"What?"
"Just—trust me. Close your eyes."
I do, and immediately feel his hands come up to cover them gently.
Warm palms, callused fingers, the familiar weight of him standing behind me. He guides me forward and I hear the door open, feel the change in air as we step into the room.
"Okay," he says softly, right by my ear. "Open."
He drops his hands.
I open my eyes and my breath catches.
It's a library. Floor-to-ceiling shelves line three walls, all custom-built from dark green painted wood that glows warm in the morning light. A large window dominates the fourth wall, and beneath it?—
"Is that?—"
"The sofa from Gracie's bookstore," Nate confirms. "Alfie left it to me in his will. Said something about it belonging in a place where stories would be loved."
I move closer to the shelves, running my fingers along the smooth wood. Most are empty, waiting to be filled, but scattered throughout are books I recognize immediately.
My books.
The ones I wrote.
Different editions, different languages, all carefully placed like they matter.
And there—classics I used to read as a kid.
The Secret Garden. A Little Princess. Anne of Green Gables.
Books I haven't seen in years but used to check out from Gracie's over and over again. And on the middle shelf, right at eye level?—
Peter Pan.
The same copy from the photo Alfie left me. The one with Jake and Nate and eight-year-old me, lost in our respective worlds.
My hand trembles as I reach for it, pull it down. The pages are worn, loved, filled with marginalia in handwriting I recognize as Alfie's.
