I’m due to start at the Coastal Art Gallery next week, and the thought still makes my stomach twist, in a good way. New job, new home, same person who made every inch of distance we’ve endured completely worth it over the last year and a half.
“Found it,” Jay says, appearing in the doorway, a stack of books under one arm and that familiar black-and-gold scrapbook in the other.
My heart jumps. “You brought it.”
“Of course I did.” He grins, crossing the room to hand it to me. “You think I’m not going to show you the evidence of our year apart?”
I take it carefully, running my fingers over the worn cover. The edges are slightly crinkled, one of the corners still stained from the time he spilled coffee on it when we were FaceTiming.
“Okay,” I say, setting mine beside his. “Moment of truth.”
He drops down next to me, shoulder to shoulder, and for a second, we just look at them—two books that carried us through twelve months of fleeting weekends together, video calls, and endless countdowns.
“You first,” he says.
I open his scrapbook, fingers tingling with excitement. Inside are pieces of our year together and apart—ticket stubs from when we saw Olivia Rodrigo, photos of him at work, a few of us and Nick Fury when he came to visit—who totally gave him the cold shoulder every time, and he’s currently snoozing on his brand-new bed in the spare room. A napkin with a terrible doodle of me, a pressed flower I sent him from campus, and his notes scrawled in the margins.Missed you today.Almostbooked a flight just to see you for dinner.You’re still my favorite view.
My throat tightens. “You actually kept everything.”
“Every week,” he says. “Even when I thought I didn’t have anything worth saving.”
I flip another page and find the photo from the rooftop—me tucked under his chin, eyes closed, smiling as I imagined this very moment, even back then.
I flip again, and it’s a full-page spread of pictures of me from the night in the studio. The first night he kissed me.
I’m staring at him with paint covering my skin. My eyes locked on the person taking the picture. Desire swarms my irises, even in the low light, it’s visible. More than that, I can remember that intense feeling, the same one I get even now when we’re together.
He leans in close to my ear. “You don’t know what it did to me—seeing you like that. Lit up, open, trusting me with every inch I touched.” His voice is a delicious low rumble that travels directly to my core.
I turn to look at him, but he’s staring at the photo of me with a reverie that steals my heart entirely. I found a home within the safety of his arms, and I never want to leave.
“That was the night,” he says quietly, “I realized I was in real trouble. Because I wasn’t just attracted to you anymore. I was falling. Falling for you was one of the easiest things I’ve done in my life, and loving you is even easier.”
He smiles, this soft, heartbreakingly tender thing that curls warm and familiar in my stomach. “I love you, too.” I breathe him in, savoring the moment. “Every time you say it. Like it’s the first time. Like you mean it even more now.”
His hand slips around my waist, anchoring me. “I do.”
“God,” I whisper, voice cracking a little. “We really did it, huh?”
“There wasn’t any other option, gatinha. You’re my forever.”
“You’re mine, too.” I turn to capture his lips with mine, pressing every single emotion into the kiss. Then I close the book and look at him. “You ready to see yours?”
He nods, and I hand it over. His fingers brush mine as he opens it, and for a while, we just sit there on the floor, surrounded by boxes and sunlight, looking through the proof that we did it—we made it. His scrapbook is simple—photos, notes, little pieces of us. Mine’s the opposite: painted pages, colors spilling over each other, sketches layered between pictures, and dried petals from places we’d been apart. Every week, I’d add something through painting because I couldn’t always put into words, but then he always says my art speaks louder than anything.
“I love this so much,” he starts, face tilting toward me. “But not as much as I love you.”
When he reaches the last page, he glances up at me again. “You left it blank.”
“Yeah,” I say, smiling. “I figured we should fill that one in together.”
He grins, that slow, warm one that still makes my chest go tight. “Then let’s start now.”
***
“Are you sure this is a good idea?”
“He actually doesn’t like surprises now I think of it,” Hudson says, and I slap his arm. “Oww, was that necessary?”
