Dylan’s voice floated from the yard—something about making sure her Kindle charger hadn’t gotten packed with the bathroom stuff. She smiled. Of course he remembered that. Of course he cared that much.
Behind her, the front porch of her little white rental was packed with bodies—Ashley in tears, Abigail dabbing her eyes, and Raleigh Ann dramatically fanning her face like it was a funeral.
“Y’all are so annoying,” Ali mumbled, blinking back her own tears.
“Oh please,” Abigail sniffled. “You cried watching the Camp Rock reunion on TikTok.”
“That’s because Joe and Demi meant something to a generation!” Ali snapped, setting the box in the trailer.
Ashley barreled down the steps and threw her arms around her cousin. “You better call every day. Every. Damn. Day.”
“I will.”
“If he hurts you—” Raleigh Ann started.
“He won’t,” Ali said quickly. “He’s… he’s it for me. Y’all know that.”
“We do know that,” Abigail said, walking up with a small six-pack of Diet Cokes. “And we’re proud of you. For being brave. For choosing love.” She smirked. “And for letting him buy that bougie-ass bed for y’all.”
Ali laughed through a tear. “I mean… it is beautiful.”
The girls laughed with her, then pulled her in for one last group hug.
And when Dylan walked up behind her, sliding his arm around her waist and pressing a kiss to her temple, not one of them blinked.
Ashley narrowed her eyes at him though. “We mean it. Bodily harm.”
“I believe you,” Dylan said, raising his hands.
Ali glanced up at him, her heart thudding wildly.
This was it.
A new city. A new job. A new chapter.
And her favorite person by her side.
“I’m ready,” she whispered.
Dylan kissed her again, softer this time. “Let’s go home.”
Two cars. One driveway. A whole new life.
Ali’s tires crunched over the pavers as she pulled in behind Dylan, her fingers still wrapped around the wheel like she needed the grounding. Her Grand Cherokee came to a slow stop beside his Bronco, the trailer hitched behind it swaying ever so slightly as it settled.
He climbed out first, stretching like he’d been driving cross-country and not just five hours down the interstate. She watched from her spot for a second, the way he turned to look at the house—and then over at her. That grin. That stupid, heart-stopping grin.
Her heart squeezed.
Their driveway.
Their house.
Their future.
She stepped out, the Florida heat sticky against her skin, her sundress clinging to her thighs. The same house she’d visited just a few weeks ago—now filled with boxes labeled bathroom stuff and Ali’s books (do not touch) and blankets I never use but refuse to get rid of.
He met her halfway, hands landing on her hips like it was muscle memory.
