Show her what I’ve done.
Show her what we can be.
Show her what home looks like—with me.
The second the limo rolls up the long driveway, Adrianna goes quiet.
Not the annoyed quiet.
Not the biting-her-tongue quiet.
The stunned, overwhelmed, heart-on-the-verge quiet.
Thorn House rises in front of us—fresh paint, restored trim, brand new windows catching the late afternoon light.
Contractors worked fast, and it paid off.The place looks like it belongs on a postcard.
But the inside?Well, that part matters most.And I can’t fucking wait to show her.
I help her out of the car, Bella already bouncing ahead, eager to explore everything at once.
“Whoa!”Bella gasps as she runs up the porch steps.“This place is HUGE!I bet there are secret passages and maybe ghosts?—”
“Hopefully not ghosts,” Adrianna murmurs.
“But ghosts would be cool!”Bella insists.
I laugh, unlocking the front door.
“No ghosts.Just really creaky floors and old pipes.”
The moment Adrianna steps inside, she freezes.
Warm wood floors shine beneath her heels.Cream-colored walls.Sunlight is spilling through the tall windows.
She walks farther in—and stops in front of the living room.
Her hand flies to her mouth.
“God, I remember this room,” she whispers.
I nod because I do, too.
The nights we spent making out down here in secret.
The days we sat around in the sunlight pouring in from the windows, drinking iced tea and making plans, writing songs.
Next, we move to the main bedroom.
Our bedroom now.
Adrianna’s hands finally leave her mouth, and I’m glad.
She’s way too pretty to cover up.But she gasps, and something inside me squeezes tight.
Because there, placed with quiet reverence, sits my grandmother’s antique furniture.
Every piece has been refinished, polished, restored by my hands, my sweat, my hours bent over sandpaper and stain, remembering every story Grandma ever told about these pieces.
