"Lucy..."
"Open it."
He does.
The first page is a photo from years ago—him and Connor in their hockey jerseys, arms slung around each other, gap-toothed grins. College days, when everything was simpler.
He turns the page. Another photo: him and Maisie building a snowman, her tiny hands in his large ones. Then him and Connor at Thanksgiving, loading plates. Him at the kitchen table with Dad, playing chess. Him and Emma, decorating Christmas cookies, his expression soft in a way I rarely see.
Page after page of proof. Of the family he chose. The life he built here, even as he prepared to leave it.
The second-to-last page is a photo I took last week: Ryder and Maisie reading by the fire, her tucked against his side, both absorbed in the story.
He traces the image with one finger. Doesn't speak.
The final page is a recent photo of us at the Christmas market. Natalie took it when we weren't looking—Ryder's arm around my shoulders, me laughing at something he said, both of us caught in a moment of unguarded happiness.
Proof that we existed. Together. That this was real.
"You made this." His voice is rough. "You made this for me."
"I wanted you to have something to remember us by. All of us. When you're in Boston and it gets lonely." I'm babbling now, nervous. "I know it's not much compared to a first edition book, but—"
He kisses me. Hard and desperate and grateful. When he pulls back, his eyes are bright.
"No one has ever given me something like this." He flips back through the pages, drinking in every photo. "No one has ever... Lucy, this is the best gift I've ever received."
"Really?"
"Really." He sets the album beside my book, then pulls me into his lap, arms tight around me. "Thank you. For making me part of your family. For this."
I bury my face in his neck. He smells like pine and winter and home.
We sit like that for a long time, wrapped around each other, the weight of leaving pressing down on both of us. His hand strokes my back in slow, soothing circles. I focus on his heartbeat, steady against my cheek.
"I love you," I whisper.
The words fall into the space between us like stones into water.
I feel him freeze. Every muscle in his body going rigid. The hand on my back stops moving.
The silence stretches. One breath. Two. Three.
Oh.
Oh no.
I pull back to look at him. His eyes are wide, something like panic flickering in their depths. His throat works but no sound comes out.
He's not going to say it back.
The realization hits like ice water. I knew he might not be ready. I told myself I was okay with that. That saying it was enough, that I didn't need to hear it returned.
But sitting here, watching him struggle for words he can't find, I realize I'm not okay. Not even close.
"You don't have to say it back." I try to smile. My face feels stiff. "I just... I needed you to know."
"Lucy—" His voice cracks.
