She nodded, heart thumping. “We are, Cujo. And I want a few selfies with my boyfriend.”
The word lingered between them—boyfriend. His eyes flicked to the bag again. “What’s in the bag?”
“Disposable cameras,” she admitted, finally giving away her secret. “I want us to have all sorts of photos to look back on and remember these moments between us…”
She didn’t finish—because Tate leaned in, swallowing her words with a kiss. It wasn’t desperate this time, but steady, purposeful. His lips molded to hers like they’d always been meant to fit. She melted, every inch of her body softening into him, absorbing the unspoken vow threaded in the way he kissed her.
When they parted, his gaze lingered, softer than she’d ever seen. He brushed a stray lock of hair from her face with unexpected tenderness. “Thank you,” he breathed, voice low, reverent.
“It’s my pleasure,” she whispered back, daring to mimic the gesture and tuck his hair—short as it was—playfully behind his ear. His eyes nearly closed at the touch, as if she’d unraveled some tightly bound knot inside him. “Selfie time, Cujo…”
“As you wish,” he murmured, raising the phone.
She leaned in closer, fitting herself against him until their reflection filled the screen. Her arm slipped easily around his shoulders, her other circling his chest, pulling herself into his warmth.
His eyes glowed. His lips curved in the gentlest smile. For once, he looked completely unguarded. Happy.
And in that frozen image on the screen, Nettie saw more than just two people fumbling through the awkward newnessof a relationship they never imagined coming to life. She saw something neither of them had dared name aloud—something fragile and unstoppable all at once.
Love.
Tate snapped another picture, and another, as she laughed against his shoulder. She turned into him, kissing him again, sealing what the photos captured: the beginning of something lasting.
Something real.
Something worth every attempt, every ounce of energy they both had.
Nettie had never considered herself much of a teacher, but with Tate, everything felt different—sharper, more alive, more delicate. The way he glared down at the yarn tangled in his big hands was almost comical, and she bit back a smile.
“No, like this…” she murmured gently, shifting on her cushion so she could see him better.
She sat cross-legged, perched on one end of the couch, her knees brushing the fabric in a familiar rhythm while her own project rested neatly at her side. Tate sat next to her, mirroring her pose, though it looked unnatural on him, his broad frame bent forward, his knees jutting out at awkward angles. He held the needles as if they were foreign weapons rather than harmless sticks of wood, his knuckles whitening with the effort. His scowl deepened as he glared at the snarled mess in his lap.
“This isn’t working,” he muttered darkly.
“Be patient,” she urged, her voice calm and warm, though inside she was already bracing herself.
“I think we both know that isn’t my strong suit.”
“I know, but don’t give up yet. You’ll get it…”
“Nettie…” His tone held warning, a plea, and a spark of temper all at once.
“Shh.” She raised a finger without thinking, shushing him like a child. The sharp look he sent her made her lips twitch. His jaw flexed as though he were grinding his teeth.
Oh yes, he was right on the edge.
She could see it in the tightness around his mouth, the restless way his shoulders shifted, the faint vibration in the air between them as his temper simmered. This was his seventh attempt at the simplest stitch, and every time something went wrong. Dropped loops, knots, and the yarn snapped once. She was honestly impressed he hadn’t hurled the needles across the room yet.
“Breathe and listen to me, Cujo…” she coaxed softly, letting the nickname slip easily and full of warmth.
“I might be foaming at the mouth by the time we’re done with this,” he snapped.
She couldn’t help the laughter that spilled out. The sound seemed to ease some of the storm in him, even as he tossed the needles down with a frustrated growl. She shifted forward, intending to pick them up, but he moved at the same time, starting to rise.
“Stay there,” she ordered quickly, her tone firmer now. He froze, startled. Nettie bent to retrieve the needles, and then, before she could think better of it, she climbed into his lap.
His whole body jolted under hers, the sheer surprise etched across his face nearly making her laugh again. His hands twitched as though unsure whether to push her off or hold her closer. “What?—”
