I blink, a few more tears slipping down even as a shaky laugh escapes my lips. “You’re really going to make me cry harder if you keep being so sweet.”
He smiles then, just the barest tilt of his mouth. “Then I’ll stop talking and help you finish up.”
He drops his eyes to my skates, fingers brushing mine as he takes over the laces I abandoned.
I let him. Let myself lean into his care, into the weight of the bond that wraps around my heart, an anchor instead of a chain. I don’t know what this surprise is.
But right now, with his hands steady on my skates and his presence wrapping around me, I believe him. Maybe it will make me smile. Maybe something good is waiting.
Graham finishes unlacing my skates, helping me out of them, acting as if I’m made of something softer than I am.
I’m not.
But with him, I don’t mind pretending I am.
He doesn’t push me to talk. Just grabs my bag, nods toward the exit, and waits until I’m ready to move.
We don’t go back to my apartment.
He drives in silence, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift. The city slips away behind us, brick, metal, and noise fading into open stretches of road and tall trees leaning in and listening.
A house slowly appears at the end of a long driveway.
Sprawling, clean-lined, modern. Sunlight gleams off the wide windows, the siding warm and soft in the midday glow. There’s a porch swing tucked under the eaves, a deep wraparound porch, and the edges of the property stretch out into open green space and tree cover—quiet, private, safe.
No towering fences. No glass walls to show off. Only a quiet peace.
It’s understated in the way only real effort can be. Someone built it to last.
Not flashy.
But undeniably his. I sit back in my seat, staring at it as he parks.
It’s not aCinderellamoment.
I’ve been around money my whole life, and I honestly don’t care much for the flash of it. I know the difference between generational wealth and earned comfort.
And this is earned.
He turns off the engine, glancing over at me.
“This is yours?” I ask.
He nods once. “Yeah.”
He doesn’t say more than that. Doesn’t explain the years it must’ve taken. The jobs. The grind. The way a boy with no safety net builds something solid from the dirt. But I feel it.
In every inch of this place. It’s not just a house.
It’s proof.
Proof that he survived. Proof that he’s not going anywhere. My heart stumbles.
“This feels big,” I say, fingers tightening around the strap of my purse.
His eyes hold mine. Steady. Unshakable. “It is.”
And when he opens his door and walks around to mine, I realize, this is really forever.
