The kind of love you build. The kind of love you tell your grandkids about. The kind of love that love songs are written about.
The next day we spend all day together. I end up falling asleep on the couch and wake up alone. It’s late when I go looking for Liam. The kind of late where the stars are sharp and close, and the air hums with crickets and the faint scent of hay and warm earth.
I find Liam in the barn loft, of all places sitting on a bale of hay, elbows on his knees, a steaming mug in his hands. He looks up when he hears me, then stands instantly, worried.
“Everything okay?” he asks, crossing the space.
I nod. “Yeah. Just needed air. And maybe a back rub.”
He smiles, relief softening his whole face.
He sets his mug down and takes my hand, guiding me gently to sit on the hay bale, then kneels behind me, hands already moving in those magic circles low on my spine.
I groan without shame. “God. Marry whoever taught you this.”
He chuckles against my shoulder. “Don’t tempt me. It was my grandma.”
I laugh, and for a while, we just sit there. Me, between his knees, his hands working slow and steady, the warmth of his breath brushing my hair.
“I used to come up here when I needed to think,” he says quietly. “Even as a kid. It was the one place my dad wouldn’t follow.”
I look down, letting the silence answer for me.
“You don’t have to say it,” he adds. “I know what he cost us. I live with it every day.”
I reach back, covering one of his hands with mine.
“I know you do,” I whisper.
He presses a kiss to my temple. “Thanks for being here.”
And that’s when it slips out. I don’t mean to say it. But I feel it. And suddenly, it’s the only truth I can give.
“I didn’t want to be anywhere else. I’m just glad to be home.”
The word lingers in the air. Liam stills behind me. His breath catches. His hands stop moving. Slowly, he rises to his feet and comes around in front of me, crouching so we’re eye-level. His eyes shine in the low barn light, the emotion there too big to hide.
“You mean that?”
I nod once, and tears burn in my throat.
“I didn’t think I’d ever say that again,” I admit. “But it’s true. This—you—it feels like home.”
He doesn’t speak. He just leans in and kisses me like he knows the moment is too fragile to rush. And I kiss him back with everything I’ve been holding in.
Not because we’re fixed. Not because everything’s perfect.
But because we made it through the fire.
And we’re still choosing each other on the other side.
“Olive Fiegel, I’m going to marry you one of these days,” he says in a low tone.
I smile up at him. “I’m going to hold you to that.”
And just like that I know that I’m right where I’m supposed to be.
EPILOGUE #1
