"Luke," I breathe.
Another notification pops up.
Match found: Someone who drove past your inn twelve times after midnight but was too scared to stop.
Then another.
Match found: Someone who named his new security protocol 'Buttercup' because he missed saying her name.
The messages keep coming, each one a confession, a truth, a piece of Luke's heart served up in notification form.
Match found: Someone who can't eat scrambled eggs anymore because they remind him of your kitchen.
Match found: Someone who bought a goat yoga mat.He doesn't know why.His therapist has theories.
Match found: Someone who threatened your dickhead of an ex with bodily harm.Someone who may still do him bodily harm.His lawyer advises against elaborating.
I'm laughing and crying simultaneously, probably looking deranged as I read each message.
Match found: Someone who sent $250,000 not to buy you but because he couldn't stand the thought of you losing your grandmother's dream, even if you never spoke to him again.
Match found: Someone who learned your coffee order, your favorite song, the way you organize sticky notes by crisis level.Someone who fell in love with your chaos before he understood your reasons.
Match found: Someone who hacked back.Not to trick or trap but to tell the truth: You hacked his profile fifteen times.He's hacked yours infinity times, because that's how many times he chooses you.
The final notification is different.
Just text.
No "match found" prefix.
"Turn around."
My heart stops.
Actually stops.I'm pretty sure that's medically concerning, but I turn anyway.
Luke is asleep in the chair by the fireplace—the same chair where he waited that first night.
His glasses are askew, his usually perfect hair is a disaster, and curled at his feet like a small, demanding fluff is?—
"Buttercup?"
The goat's head snaps up at her name, and she lets out a throaty cry that's somewhere between "FINALLY" and "MOM'S HOME."
She launches herself at me with the velocity of a small, hooved missile.
"Oof!"I catch her, staggering backward as thirty pounds of goat affection tries to climb me like a tree."How are you—why are you?—"
"Maaah!"She's licking my face, butting her head against my chin, making the kind of scene that usually requires advance warning and liability waivers.
The commotion wakes Luke.
He blinks, straightens his glasses, and looks at me with such vulnerable hope it makes my chest ache.
"Hi," he says softly.
"Hi," I manage around Buttercup's aggressive affection."You hacked my profile."
