“I hate them!”
I start rubbing her back in slow circles with my free hand. “Okay, so we’re clearly breaking into their offices and replacing all the art with finger paintings. Anonymously, of course.”
She pauses. And then she breaks into full-on laughter. The kind that pulls from the belly and shakes her whole body. “You’re the worst.”
That’s the thing about Emma. One dumb joke, one stupid little spark, and suddenly the whole sky lights up again.
We ended up spending the rest of the afternoon eating chocolate in her bed.
And I swear, that was one of the best moments of my life.
It’s been four months. Four months of being Emma Green’s boyfriend.
And today… she said it. She told me she loves me. Not just that—she said she’s ready.Ready,ready.
My brain stopped working. My heart's doing parkour in my chest, and my dick practically high-fived me.
I managed to convince my dad to let me use my savings to rent a cabin a couple of hours away from the city. Had to work my ass off—grades, chores, all of it. But he finally said yes.
When I get to her house, she walks out dragging two huge duffel bags.
How long does she think we’re staying?
I jump out of the car and pop the trunk. “Excuse me, what isallthis?”
“Ugh, Luca,” she groans, already frazzled. “I don’t know how many outfit changes I’ll need! And what if I can’t sleep? I don’t sleep well in strange beds. So, I brought three books—sci-fi, romance, and this one on ancient painting techniques.AndI figured if there’s a view, I’ll want to paint, so I brought?—”
I cut her off with a kiss, pressing her back against the car. She’s nervous. It’s obvious. But also, adorable.
Yeah, I’ve done this before—not as much as she probably thinks—but enough to know exactly what I want to do to her body this weekend.
“You’re not gonna have time to sleep,” I murmur against her nose. I kiss her brow. “Or paint. “I kiss her cheek. “Or doanythingthat doesn’t involveme.”
She exhales a shaky laugh and nods, smiling like she’s still half-terrified, half-thrilled.
We hit the road. I put on Coldplay, because of course. And like always, we end up deep in one of Emma’s philosophical spirals.
“Do you think happiness is just a chemical reaction? Or something bigger?”
She’s staring out the window, chin in hand, already over it. “I don’t know!” she huffs. “I don’twantto think it’s just chemicals in my brain. I want to believe it’syou. You make me happy.”
I grin and rest my hand on her thigh. “I make you happy?”
“Yes, gargoyle. You know you do.”
I squeeze her knee a little, still watching the road. I don’t say it enough, but sometimes I look at her and wonder how the hell I got so lucky. She’s all color and brightness, and I’m… the absence of all that.
“You make me happy too, Em.”
She finally turns to look at me, giving me that scrunchy-eyed smile that makes me think about what we’ll look like at seventy. Wrinkly and still likethis.
The cabin’s perfect. Warm pine walls rise around me, their honeyed scent faint but comforting, like sap and woodsmoke. Huge windows frame the kind of mountain view you only see on postcards—jagged peaks dusted with snow, the treeline dark and endless. A stone fireplace anchors the room, logs stacked neatly beside it, though the ashes in the grate tell me it was lit last night. The floor creaks softly under my boots, rugs scattered here and there to cut the chill. Outside, the wind whistles faintly, carrying the crisp bite of alpine air. It’s still cold, but the forecast says it’ll warm up tomorrow.
I know I said some intense stuff earlier about keeping her in bed all weekend, but the truth is, I just wanted this. A chance to be alone with her. No drama. No Silas and Lauren chaos. No parents breathing down my neck. Just us.
I drop our bags in the room and sit on the bed, bouncing a bit to test the noise level. Nothing. Silent. Perfect.
Wait. Isthatnerves I feel?
