The ride back was quieter. Nothing had changed, really, but something had settled between us. There was a kind of hush that came when you’ve said something real and the other person held it gently in their hands without crushing it.
The sun was low now, casting long streaks of amber across the two-lane road as we wound back toward Star Harbor. The breeze was cooler, tinged with the first signs of evening, but I didn’t mind. I was tucked against Austin’s back, arms wrapped around him, chin resting on his shoulder. One of his hands stayed curled around my calf—a small, unspoken check that I was still with him.
And I was. Still there. Still his.
The rhythmic hum of the engine beneath us, the steady way he leaned into each curve—it all lulled me into something warm and wool soft. It was a quiet that made space for my thoughts to stretch out. For the first time in a long while, I let them wander where they wanted to go.
Not into fear. Not into worst-case scenarios or escape plans of ghost sightings.
But forward.
I let myself imagine what it might look like to wake up to mornings with him in our lives—slow and golden, tangled in his arms, sunlight painting the sheets. I pictured Winnie curled up on the couch with a bowl of popcorn while Austin read to her in that gravelly, steady voice of his. I imagined holidays and grocery lists and the little things—socks folded in the wrong drawers, toothpaste left in the sink, fights and forgiveness and the ache of ordinary love.
I imagined laughing with him in a kitchen that didn’t quite feel like mine yet. Watching him dance Winnie around the living room while I stood at the sink, dish towel in hand, pretending I wasn’t completely, utterly wrecked by the sight of it.
I imagined a life.
Not just a moment, but a life.
When we pulled into my driveway, the sky had slipped fully into violet. The porch light spilled gold over the walk, and the duplex stood there waiting—familiar and quiet and suddenly not quite big enough for all the dreams crowding my chest.
Austin cut the engine and reached down to steady the bike. I didn’t move right away, didn’t let go. My arms stayed around him a second longer than necessary.
He looked back at me over his shoulder, helmet hiding most of his face, but I saw it in his eyes.
“You good?” he asked, his voice soft through the visor.
I nodded, heart swelling with something I couldn’t name just yet. “Yes,” I said with a deep sigh. “I’m perfect.”
He smiled, slow and crooked. “Yeah you are.”
Even after the helmets were off and we were walking toward the door, our fingers laced together, I kept that vision close to my heart.
Just in case it wasn’t a fantasy.
Just in case it was a beginning.
THIRTY
SELENE
I had takena rare day off and the house smelled like lavender and warm cotton. It was one of those quiet, in-between afternoons where the sun lingered at the edge of the sky, painting the windows in gold and peach while the rest of the world slipped toward evening. I stood in front of the couch, folding a blue towel into thirds, then again into a neat square. The dryer rumbled faintly down the hall, rhythmic and low, like the sound of a distant train.
A mug of peppermint tea rested on the arm of the couch, half cold. Something acoustic played from the Bluetooth speaker on the kitchen counter—easy, open chords and a woman’s voice low and raspy, like she knew exactly what it meant to miss someone she couldn’t name out loud.
Behind me, Winnie sang over the music. Off-key and unapologetic.
Her voice bobbed in and out of the chorus, occasionally breaking off mid-word to talk to herself or narrate her outfit choices for tonight’s concert.
“Do you think the boots are too much?” she asked, appearing at the edge of the hallway with one sparkly boot in hand and her hair half brushed. “Like, what if I look like I’m trying too hard?”
“You are trying,” I said gently, smoothing my palm over the crease of a pillowcase before folding it. “That’s the whole point of performing. But no, they’re not too much. I think they’re very you.”
She made a satisfied noise and spun on her heel, disappearing again. Above me, I heard the closet door creak, then the scuffle of a hanger dragged too fast along the rod.
I smiled to myself, folding another towel, but the feeling snagged—soft and sweet and a little too close to hope.
Things hadn’t changed, not really.
