"This is all for you."
"Then I'm a very lucky woman."
I drive us to the nicest restaurant in the area, a small place about twenty minutes outside Lovesbury, intimate and romantic. The owner seats us at a corner table, candles flickering between us.
"This is beautiful," Iris says, looking around. "How did you find this place?"
"Jonah recommended it. Said it's where people go when they want to make an impression."
"Consider me impressed."
Over dinner, we talk like we've been doing this for years. She tells me about her day, the student who brought her a dandelion,the parent meeting that went surprisingly well, the way Nora called three times demanding details about the weekend.
I tell her about the vintage Mustang that came into the shop, about how Jonah wouldn't stop grinning at me all day, about how every hour felt like ten because I was counting down until I could see her again.
"You really meant it," she says softly. "About wanting to see me every day."
"I never say things I don't mean."
She reaches across the table and takes my hand. "I'm glad. Because I feel the same way. This weekend... it changed everything for me, Silas. You changed everything."
"You changed everything for me too. Before you, I was just... existing. Going through the motions. But you make me want to actually live again."
Her eyes shine with unshed tears. "We're quite a pair, aren't we? Both of us just going through the motions until we found each other."
"Best pair I can imagine."
After dinner, I don't take her straight home. Instead, I drive to a lookout point above town, where the lights of Lovesbury spread out below us like scattered stars.
We stand at the edge, my arms around her from behind, and she leans back against my chest.
"I could get used to this," she murmurs.
"Good. Because I'm not going anywhere."
She turns in my arms, tilting her face up to mine. "Promise?"
"Promise. You're stuck with me now, Iris Whitfield."
"Best prize I ever won," she says, and then she's kissing me, and the lights of the town fade away until there's nothing but her.
When we finally break apart, both breathless, she stays close, her hands on my chest.
"Come home with me," she whispers. "Stay tonight."
"You sure?"
"I'm sure. I don't want this day to end. I don't want to be apart from you."
"Neither do I."
We end up back at her place, and it feels different from the cabin, more real, more permanent. This is her space, her life, and she's inviting me into it.
We don't rush. We make tea and curl up on her couch, talking about everything and nothing. She shows me photos of her dad, tells me stories about growing up in this house. I tell her about a restless childhood shaped by constant moves, never quite finding where I fit until the military became my anchor.
"And now?" she asks. "Do you fit here? In Lovesbury?"
I look around her cozy living room, at the photos on the walls, the books stacked everywhere, the comfortable worn furniture. Then I look at her, curled against my side, her hand resting over my heart.
