Then Will says, totally deadpan, “Next time, we christen the house after business hours.”
I laugh and says, “Let’s get our house, cowboy.”
26
Two weeks later, Will and I are in Cheyenne, furniture shopping.
For our house.
I still can’t quite wrap my head around that sentence, let alone the fact that we’re doing it in secret. We’ve made love in every room. Picked out paint swatches. He fixed the squeaky back gate and I ordered dishes for our kitchen. But we haven’t told a single soul.
Not Sam. Not Charlie. Not anyone.
It’s surreal, walking through showrooms and talking about rugs and nightstands like we’re just another couple. No whispers, no hiding, no fear of someone seeing us and reporting back.
Just us.
Will holds my hand as we walk into the next store, his thumb tracing slow circles against my skin. He’s in jeans and a black henley rolled up at the sleeves—basically weaponized masculinity. I’m trying not to look at him like I want to christen every couch in here.
“You keep lookin’ at me like that,” he says low, “and we’re gonna get banned from the mattress section.”
“Don’t tempt me,” I whisper, tugging him toward a tan sectional I spotted across the room.
He follows without hesitation, fingers still laced through mine. When we stop, he drops onto the couch, legs spread, arms draped across the back like he owns the place. Like he already sees me curled up against him in some lazy Sunday future.
“I like this one,” he says.
I raise a brow. “That was fast.”
He tugs me down beside him. “Comfort speaks for itself.”
I snuggle in, letting myself sink into the cushions—and into him. He kisses the side of my head like it’s second nature now. It feels normal. Easy. Like we’re allowed to be this way outside of locked doors.
But that ache comes back, subtle and sharp. Because we’re still a secret. And at some point, this is going to collide with real life.
He must feel my shoulders stiffen, because he leans in and whispers, “Hey. What’s goin’ on in that head of yours, sugar?”
I shake my head, trying to smile. “Nothing. Just weird, I guess. That this is real.”
He really looks at me. Not the kind of glance you toss across a dinner table, but the kind that peels you open.
Then he says, “It’s been real a long time, sugar.”
And somehow, that one simple sentence roots me deeper than anything else ever could.
He stands and offers his hand, palm up like a promise. “Let’s look upstairs.”
We take the escalator to the second floor, which is full of bedroom sets, lighting, and rugs. The part where it starts to feel like a home instead of a house.
I fall in love with a white oak bedroom set and its clean lines and warm tones. It’s the kind of timeless I didn’t know I likeduntil it was ours. Will, meanwhile, is lying dramatically across a mattress, grinning like a fool.
“This one. I want this one. I’ll do unspeakable things on this one.”
I laugh, cheeks warm. “You’ve done unspeakable things on a cot. You’re not picky.”
He just winks and says, “That’s fair.”
We move to the next showroom, still joking, still wrapped in the glow of something sweet and golden and fragile.
