Her brow lifts.
I lean closer, brushing my forehead against hers.
“You’re not a performance.”
A shiver runs across her shoulders.
“You’re the first thing since I sang with the band that’s felt real. And even though you did ask me to fake date for the town, you never asked me to fake myself.”
Her eyes sparkle, brilliant as fresh snow on a sunny day. I watch her emotions in them, swirling layers of light through leaves—relief, awe, affection, something deeper I’m not sure I deserve. She pulls back, just a fraction. We look at each other through the afterglow of this new thing that’s only ours.
And then, right on cue, Sweetpines rushes back, reentering the picture as loud and meddling as expected.
“Brooks,” someone calls from the refreshment table. “Doc! You see that kiss?”
Dr. Brooks, holding a paper plate loaded down with two cinnamon rolls, meanders over, a faded flannel shirt barely peeking out from beneath the lab coat he hasn’t bothered to take off.
“Hard to miss,” he says evenly, though there’s a knowing glint in his eye.
Maisie straightens a little, cheeks flushed. I step instinctively closer beside her, not to shield or stake a claim, but because pride has a posture, and in this moment, I feel it in every inch of me.
Brooks glances at me first, then at her, then back again. “I see someone finally figured out how to treat a case of emotional constipation.”
Maisie laughs, half-snort, half-squeak, and leans into my side. “Is that an actual medical term?”
“Only for the real stubborn cases,” he says, raising an eyebrow at me.
He redirects his gaze, softer now, watching with the satisfaction of someone who saw this ending coming all along. “Truth is, you looked like a man trying not to wantsomething for a long time. But want’s not the problem, son. Hiding from it is.”
I nod, words lodged just below my Adam’s apple.
Brooks lowers his voice a little. “You’ve got a good one here. And from the looks of it, you know that already.”
“I do,” I say, my voice as solid as the salute of a soldier when his commanding officer nears.
Dr. Brooks reaches into his jacket and pulls out a small packet of chamomile tea, of course he does, and presses it into Maisie’s hand.
“For the nerves,” he says. “Or for making it official. Whichever comes first.”
Then he winks, and ambles off before we can thank him.
She turns to me and giggles, the sound as light and airy as bubbles floating up from a fountain. Then her hands slide up to my shoulders and she pulls me into another kiss.
This one is softer. Slower. Not for anyone else. It’s not about proving anything. It’s the next right thing. The natural step forward.
Around us, the festival keeps roaring. Someone starts a chant about “Sweetpines Sweethearts,” and I’m ninety-nine percent sure Team Tune-Up is trying to start a wave.
But none of it matters.
Because I’ve never felt more confident in my life than I do right now, her arms still wrapped around my neck, her lips on mine. The momentum crashes through me, unstoppable, like I’ve already jumped and there’s no turning back.
And in that freefall, one truth rings out: the song wasn’t the finale.
It was just thebeginning.
The laughter, music, and dancing of the celebration keeps humming around us, but eventually it starts to ease, tapering at the edges like dusk settling over the square.
Out the window, I see that someone has switched on a strand of warm bulbs looped around the gazebo posts, golden light shining into the evening. I reach for Maisie’s hand, and she laces her fingers with mine, as naturally as thread woven through a loom.
