Our eyes locked as he pushed deep into me.
“I love you, Rio Mio,” he rasped.
I couldn’t speak—just held his gaze. I was drowning in it like he was sinking inside me.
His body, his words, that ink beneath his skin. All of it was a claim, a promise.
This is us now.
Twenty-two years after I first met him, sixteen since he became my first, Owen was mine. All mine.
I’d spent so long trying not to hope for this. And now he was here, not just passing through—real, solid, choosingme,choosingus.
We both knew it. The kitchen countertop knew it. The shower in his room. The bed in mine. The sofa, the coffee table, even the wall halfway up the stairs. We had the house to ourselves, and we made good use of it—declaring our love, each other’s names, and unintelligible half-words, half-groans in every corner.
Now we had to tell the rest of the world.
44
Owen
SKIN TO SKIN, BODYto body, fire to fire. That was all that existed. All that mattered. All I needed.
Rio Mio, the stability to my chaos, the strength to my weakness, the unconditional love to the scoreboard I was valued by every day. Her love wasn’t based on what I achieved and accumulated or what expectations I fulfilled. She loved me for what was underneath.
She never held back from telling me what she thought of me, but she did it in her Rio Mio way—without making me feel judged at every turn. I didn’t need to laugh or charm or smooth out the rough edges.
With her, I didn’t need constant motion to outrun truths, feelings, voids. I could be still. I could be bare—body, heart, and soul.
She didn’t patch the void. She filled it.
The girl who was named after a song, made my heart sing. A song about a river, written by a British band, sung about a California girl—it felt like it was written for us. She was destined to be carved into my heart, inked onto my skin.
Later that afternoon, when we were getting ready to drive to the hospital, Rio came out of the bathroom with damp hair and bare feet.
“I got something for you,” I said, handing her the small paper bag I’d left in the car.
“Thanks.” She smiled, but when she opened it, her face lit up. “The exact brand,” she said, pulling out the pack of chocolate-covered pretzels. “How did you even remember?”
“That wasn’t a problem. Finding them abroad was. But I had a layover.” I chuckled.
She looked at the bag like it was gold. I couldn’t stop smiling. If this was her reaction to pretzels, I’d have to ease her into what was coming. Because I had every intention of spoiling her rotten.
We drove to the hospital in my rental car, bringing Walter his Scrabble board—to find new victims to destroy, as he put it—along with fresh clothes and snacks.
He looked pleased to see us, but true to form, his second question after how we were was: “When’s the flight to Egoville leave?”
I just smiled.
“What?” he insisted, raising an eyebrow. “Isn’t that where thousands sing your praises?”
Rio and I exchanged a look. I could only imagine how he’d react if he knew she’d been planning to follow me to England.
I placed my hand over his. “I don’t need thousands. I don’t even need dozens. I just need you two. And maybe Simon,” I added with a smirk.
“You’re not going back?”
“No.”
