Hair damp from the shower, curling down her shoulders. Dressed in loose linen pants and a faded T-shirt that clings gently to her frame. Barefoot. Effortless. Like sunshine in human form.
My heart trips in my chest.
“You look like a sunrise,” I murmur before I can stop myself.
She arches a brow, smiling faintly.
“Still the poetic type?”
I close the distance between us slowly, her warmth calling to me like gravity.
“No,” I say softly. “The happy type.”
She opens her mouth, maybe to reply, maybe to laugh—but I lift her gently and spin her once, catching her delighted gasp in the air before settling her on the edge of the kitchen island.
She smiles wider when she sees the two plates, the folded napkins, the mugs waiting.
“You set the table and everything?” she teases.
“I make burnt toast and magic,” I reply, handing her the mug of hot chocolate.
She wraps her hands around it, inhaling the scent before taking a sip.
“You remembered I’d rather have chocolate than coffee in the morning.”
“I remember more than you think,” I say, brushing a kiss to her lips—quick, soft, sweet.
“Eat,” I add, grinning. “Before the toast turns into actual coal.”
She laughs—a soft, genuine sound that makes something in my chest ease.
We sit side by side at the island, the lake stretching out before us in a cascade of light and wind. Her shoulders relax with every bite. Her smile lingers as her eyes drift over the glass windows, like she’s memorizing the view.
When the printer hums to life in the next room, I press one last kiss to her temple and stand.
“Be right back,” I say.
Moments later, I return with a thin folder in hand. Her eyes follow me as I approach, curious.
“I have something for you.”
She tilts her head. “What is it?”
I offer her the folder, and she opens it slowly. Her eyes scan the first page, then lift to mine, wide and stunned.
“This… this is a deed.”
“A gift deed,” I say quietly. “I’m signing the lake house over to you. It’s yours, Della.”
She blinks. “Why…?”
“Because I bought it for you,” I say softly. “From the start. Every room, every view—I pictured you here. I didn’t think I’d ever see you in it. Not until now.”
Emotion wells in her gaze—thick and shimmering.
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” I interrupt gently. “It’s not just about the house. It’s a promise. That I’ll never take you for granted again. That you’ll always have somewhere that’s yours. Safe. Free.”
