“You okay?” she asks, glancing over, like she can feel the shift.
“Yeah,” I say, honestly. “Just glad you’re here.”
Her smile softens as she leans back into the seat, still holding my hand.
I guide us down the road, heart full and steady, already knowing—whatever’s waiting up ahead, the best part is right here.
She keeps her hand wrapped around mine as we drive, her thumb continuing to trace those slow, absent lines over my knuckles.
The road narrows, trees closing in just enough that the world feels smaller and quieter.
She tilts her head toward the window, watching the dark roll by. “You’re being very calm for someone who has a surprise.”
“That’s because I’ve already seen your face when you’re happy,” I say. “I’m not worried.”
She snorts softly. “That’s unfairly confident.”
I glance over at her, the dash lights catching the curve ofher smile and the way her eyes flicker when she’s trying not to overthink.
She squeezes my hand, and my heart squeezes in that quiet way it’s been lately.
We crest a small hill, and I feel her notice the change before she sees it.
Her grip tightens just a little. “Reed,” she says softly.
I ease my truck forward, the old theater sign coming into view, washed in that faint, nostalgic glow.
“Oh,” she says quietly. “You remembered.”
“Of course I did.”
I pull into a parking spot and cut the engine.
The night settles around us as crickets chirp, distant murmurs, and the low crackle of a speaker warming up nearby.
I don’t move my hand from her thigh, not yet.
She turns to look at me, really looks at me, her eyes bright in that way that makes me feel like I’ve done something right.
“I didn’t think—” She stops, shaking her head as she laughs under her breath. “I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”
“You asked.”
Her fingers lace tighter with mine, and she leans slightly toward me, her shoulder brushing my arm.
“I like that about you,” she says. “You listen.”
I squeeze her hand back gently. “I like that you notice things.”
She smiles, resting her head against my shoulder before we get out of the car and head inside.
The theater is emptyingaround us; murmurs, footsteps, the occasional cough.
We stay in our seats, shoulders brushing, her pinky hooked loosely around mine under the armrest, as if neither of us wants to be the first to break contact.
Eventually, she turns her head just enough for me to catch the small, private smile she’s trying to hide.
“Ready?” she asks quietly.
