I shrug, smirking faintly. “And it’ll never be enough. Ever.”
Every photo I take of her is proof. Proof that I made it, that I have her, that this is real. It’s something I can look at and know that I’m not dreaming anymore.
She’s my reality.
Her playful scowl turns into a grin when she says, “Then you’ll have to catch me.” And before I know it, she’s darting away down the beach, the sound of her laughter caught by the breeze.
I don’t even think. I just take off after her, snapping a few blurry shots as I go. Her hair flies wild in the wind, her boots kicking up sand and pebbles, and when she looks back at me, there’s pure mischief dancing in her eyes.
So alive, so free.
Both of us.
A year ago, I couldn’t have imagined being here, breathing this in with her by my side. Hell, a year ago, I was flat on my back, hooked up to machines. Now, I’m running faster than I probably should be able to. But damn, the wind in my hair, the ground beneath my feet—it feels good. I remember all those physical therapy sessions Sloan sat through with me, cheering me on as I took my shaky first steps.
But here I am, chasing the woman I love.
We’ve come a long way since then.
She eventually circles back toward our stuff, and I take the opportunity to quickly set my camera down before taking off after her again. She squeals in surprise as I catch her around the waist, lift her off the ground, and spin her around in circles while she giggles like she’s never been happier. The sound wraps around me, filling me with this indescribable warmth, and I can’t stop smiling.
“You’re fast,” she gasps out, breathless, as I press a kiss to the top of her head, holding her tight against me.
“Faster than I used to be,” I admit while I set her down gently and turn her to face me, cupping her cheeks as we both catch our breath. My heart races, but it’s the good kind. The kind that reminds me I’m alive, that I’mlivingthis life with her.
She rises onto her tiptoes, kissing me softly, and after a few languid kisses, I press my forehead to hers. “Time to make a new phone background.”
“You’re ridiculous.” Sloan laughs, shaking her head. “We just made one.”
“Last week’s photo doesn’t have enough spark,” I argue, grinning. “I need the one where you’re laughing. You know, the real one that makes your pretty nose scrunch up,” I say as I tug her toward the tripod. I set the camera up again, adjusting it for a few timed shots. “Come on,” I say, pulling her in front of the ocean and into a hug. The sun’s higher now, casting everything in a soft, warm glow. “Smile your pretty smile for me, Boo.”
She slips her arms around my waist, and I don’t miss the way her fingers grip the fabric of my hoodie like she’s afraid I might disappear if she lets go. Her cheeks are flushed from running, her eyes so full of life, it makes my chest ache.
I wrap my arm around her, pressing a kiss to her temple as the shutter clicks. Another click, and this time, I kiss her birthmark, lingering just long enough to hear her giggle. Then I scrape my teeth against it, making her laugh again, just as the camera goes off once more, capturing the moment.
“What time is it?” she asks softly, like we’re the only two people in the world.
“Time to get to work. My boss is gonna kick my ass if I’m late,” I joke.
“Your boss is pretty obsessed with you. I think you’ll be fine,” she teases, pulling me down by the strings of my hoodie for another kiss before her hands slip under the hem of it.
I instantly jump back at the feel of other icy fingers on my stomach. “Damn, woman!” I yelp, and she only cackles like a witch before sprinting away in the direction of her shop. I shake my head, laughing as I gather up our stuff. “Keep that up, and I’ll start charging for the cardio. Some of us just learned how to run again, you know!”
She’s still running, boots kicking up sand, her laughter echoing through the morning air. But she’s never running away fromme, not really. Even if she were, I’d catch her. Every time. Because now, I can follow her anywhere.Forever.
By the time I catch up with her, Sloan is unlocking the door to the garage. We’re already dressed in our work outfits—grease-stained jeans and black shirts underneath our hoodies with the logo of Sloan’s garage on them,Wrench & Whispers, ready for a day that might or might not involve actual customers. She swings the door open, her smile bright and triumphant.
“Beat you again,” she brags, pulling off her zip hoodie, and I can’t help but laugh.
“Only because you cheated with those ice-cold hands of yours,” I shoot back, nudging her gently with my shoulder as I step inside.
The shop is quiet, the air cool and smelling faintly of motor oil and metal. I set the camera gear down beside the customer’s couch, losing my hoodie too, and glancing around the place. It’s been a few months since we opened, and even though work’s been a little slow, the place already feels like home.
Sloan heads toward the back area, her boots echoing against the concrete floor.
“There aren’t any cars we need to work on today, right?” I call after her.
The shop’s still new, and word needs to get around some more before people start bringing their cars in regularly.
