“For another chance to be the real me. For turning a blind eye to what I used to do, and loving me anyway—” He stops short, nearly choking on his words. “Shit, I didn’t meanlove, I meant?—”
“I do, Forrest. Isn’t it obvious?I love youbeyond reason. I love you so much, I don’t know what it even means anymore.”
“What?” he asks, confusion covering his face.
“It’s too easy to write ‘I love you’in the final chapters of a story. That’s how it’s supposed to go. There’s a blueprint for romances—act one, then two, then three. ‘I love you’ belongs in the final chapters, but you know what? Now I see that’s just stories. In real life, we started with love, not ended with it. It brought us together from the very beginning. It was the lack of love we were feeling at first, maybe. Then, the desperate search for love once we got a taste. Finally, now, the acknowledgment of how we’ve felt all along. But it was always there, lurking. From our very first dance outside that pretzel cart, love planted a seed. Right now is where it blooms.”
Forrest pauses the movie and stares at me in silence for what seems like eternity. “I’ll build that house,” he finally says, “if you promise to write another book.” He strokes my cheeks. “Put your words on page, Sora. Until your dying day, share your heart with the world, not because they deserve it, but because you deserve to be heard. And by the way…” He stamps another tender kiss against my lips. “I love you, too. More than you can imagine.”
I smile. “If I write that book, and you build that house, what then? What if I write another book after that?”
“Then I’ll build you another house,” he says. “I’ll fill up this entire damn ranch as long as it keeps you writing.”
I press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. “You’re going to be a busy man.”
He plays the movie, restarting it yet again, then recommits to our cuddle.
“Can I tell you something?” I ask, my voice small in the vastness of the night.
“Anything.”
“I think I could be happy here. In Wyoming, I mean.” The admission surprises even me, but as the words leave my lips, I know they’re true. “Someday.”
I feel him go still, his breathing caught in a lasso before it resumes. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I confirm, feeling suddenly shy. “With you and Dakota. If that’s something you might want too.”
His hand comes up to cup my face, tilting it so he can look into my eyes. The kiss that follows is different from the heated ones we shared earlier—softer, sweeter, but somehow fuller. Full of promise, a beginning, a silent agreement to explore this possibility together.
When we part, I settle back against his chest, listening to the steady pace of his heart. This time we watch the movie through. Actually, I mostly watch Forrest, appreciating the subtle scrunch of his face, or lift of his brows at various scenes. The movie earns quite a few chuckles, a few eye rolls, and even a cringe when Westley gets slashed open by a sword or giant rat—I’m not quite sure. But it’s the “aw”at the end, during the final kiss, that makes me smile. I might make a romance girlie out of Forrest, yet.
“We should probably head back soon,” he says reluctantly when the credits roll. “Dad will worry if we’re out too late.”
“Five more minutes,” I negotiate, snuggling closer.
His chuckle rolls through his chest. “Five more minutes,” he agrees, pressing another kiss to my hair.
But time creeps by, and neither of us makes any move to leave our starlit sanctuary. The world beyond doesn’t exist. For now, there is only this moment, this connection, this feeling of having found something precious and unexpected.
As I drift toward sleep, wrapped up in Forrest’s warmth, I find myself believing in the kinds of happily-ever-afters I’ve always written about but never quite trusted could be true.
Until now.
chapter 32
Forrest
Steam rises from the pan as the batter hits the hot surface, filling the kitchen with the sweet scent of vanilla and chocolate. Morning sunlight streams through the windows, casting everything in a soft golden glow. There’s only one way to describe it—perfect.
“Daddy, they need more chocolate chips!”
I glance over at Dakota, who’s perched on a stool at the kitchen island, her small face serious as she supervises my pancake-making technique. Her hair is still rumpled from sleep, and she’s wearing the unicorn pajamas Sora bought her last week. Mr. Flops is tucked securely under one arm, his droopy ears spilling onto the countertop.
“More chocolate chips, huh?” I ask, feigning skepticism. “I don’t know, Koda. The pancake-to-chocolate ratio is already pushing these away from hearty breakfast, and into the realm of dessert.”
“But they’re so much better with extra chips,” she argues, eyes wide with conviction. “Isn’t that right, Sora?”
Sora looks up from where she’s cutting fruit at the counter, a smile playing at her lips. “I’m going to have to side with Koda on this one. Chocolate-chip pancakes should be at least fifty percent chocolate.”
