A laugh bubbles out of me, warm and a little sad. “True.”
We round the next corner, and I stop dead when I see the movie title on the front of an old theater.
“Roman Holiday?”
The marquee glows in soft retro letters, the old bulbs flickering like they’re holding onto life out of pure stubbornness. The building itself is gorgeous. All sweeping arches and carved stone, like it remembers what it was in the 1920s and refuses to modernize out of principle.
“Scottie…” My voice catches. “Did you know they were playing this movie tonight?”
“Sort of. I know that you used to watch it with your mom,” he says. “And because I’m going to miss your opening night. Andbecause…” He scratches the back of his neck. “Because I wanted to give you something good before I go.”
“What do you mean by you sort of knew?” I ask softly.
“I sort of knew because I paid to have the whole place to ourselves and asked them to play this film because I knew it was your favorite with your mom. It’s just us tonight. A private showing.”
My chest feels like it beats so hard it almost breaks a rib.
“You did this for me? You… remembered?”
“I remember everything you say,” he answers simply. Like it’s obvious.
I blink fast, trying not to cry, because this moment feels bigger than the sidewalk we’re standing on, bigger than Seattle, bigger than him remembering I don’t like roses on our wedding day, it feels bigger than whatever this arrangement was supposed to be.
“You rented out a movie theater,” I whisper, almost breathless, “to play Roman Holiday for me?”
He shrugs, but his eyes are steady. “Yeah. Thought you deserved something special.”
My throat closes at the thought that he did something like this just because he thought I deserved it.
For the girl who grew up in a house where nothing was done without strings attached. For the girl who ran from a future built on control and obligation.
My mother would have adored him.
Before I can overthink it, I reach up on instinct and kiss him. It’s a soft kiss, quick, a thank-you, and a confession I’m not brave enough to say out loud.
He smiles against my mouth.
“Come on,” he whispers. “The movie's about to start.” He grabs my hand and threads our fingers together, and I swear in this moment, I hope he never lets go.
Inside, the theater is dim and echoing, all worn velvet seats and chipped gold trim. The kind of place where stories live in the walls. Somehow, I feel my mother here in this moment, too.
We’re halfway down the aisle when he taps my arm.
“Oh. One more thing.”
He pulls a small paper bag from his jacket pocket and hands it to me.
I peek inside, and the moment I see it… I can’t barely believe this man. “Stop… you did not.”
Little Red Riding Hood chocolates.
The exact brand I used to get at the old Moscow theater with my mother when I was a kid. The candy I haven’t tasted in years. The candy I mentioned once, in passing during a breakfast dish washing moment the morning after our wedding, when things were so new between us.
“You found these?” My voice is barely a whisper.
“Yeah,” he says. “There’s a Russian market Luka told me about across town.”
“Scottie…”
