Jesus.
“Grammie Bea told you this?”
“When I was sixteen.” Sierra's finger traces the invisible line between the initials. “She said it was the saddest story the lodge ever kept. Two people who loved each other their whole lives, but memorialized like this. Looking across the same room but never quite reaching.”
Her voice cracks on the last word. Just barely. Just enough for me to catch it.
“Sierra.”
“Don't.” She doesn't look at me. “I'm just... I'm looking. That's all.”
But it's not all. It's never all with her. She's carrying something tonight—the weight of it crushing her in a way I’ve never quite seen, making her seek out sad stories in the dark.
“Their families didn’t approve.” Sadness steals her voice, leaving the words a whisper.
I reach out. Touch her ankle, where the fuzzy sock meets bare skin.
She shivers.
“It didn’t stop them.”
Choose us, Sierra.
“No. It didn’t stop them. Your family is brave.” She finally turns her head to look at me, and her eyes are too bright in the low light. “But every time Eleanor walked into this room, she looked up. Every single time. Grammie Bea said she never stopped trying to figure out a way to fix it. To bring the initials back together.”
And suddenly I understand why she's here. Why she's lying on my bar at two in the morning, staring at a century-old love story carved into wood.
Because it's us.
It's always been us.
“Sit up.” I force the words past the lump in my throat.
Every time I think she’s broken me in every way possible, there’s one more crack waiting.
But this one, it’s not hers to suffer alone.
It’s ours.
She blinks. “What?”
“Sit up, Sierra.”
Something in my voice makes her move. She pushes herself upright, legs dangling off the edge of the bar, camera clutched to her stomach.
Her hair falls in messy waves around her face, and that soft-worn flannel slips off one shoulder.
She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
And she's been running from me for way too long.
But maybe this is the key. Maybe this time I’ll catch her—keep her.
I surrender to it, to her, and settle on the stool next to her. Curling my hand around her calf, I turn her to me, tracing my fingertips over her warm, smooth skin.
Her breath catches. Mine does too, but I'm past caring.
“What are you?—”
