Garrett pulled into the parking spot outside our building. Turned off the engine. Sat there for a moment, looking at me.
"What?" I asked.
"Nothing." He smiled. A real smile this time, soft and warm. "I'm just glad you're here."
"Me too."
He leaned over. Kissed me. Soft and slow, like we had all the time in the world.
Because we did.
We'd fought for this. Survived fires and grief and eight years of silence. Found our way back to each other.
We had forever now.
And I wasn't going to waste a single day of it.
CHAPTER 19
Garrett
Three weeksand Sloane had finally moved in the last box.
Books she couldn't decide where to shelve. This morning I'd found her cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by stacks of paperbacks, muttering about alphabetization versus genre organization like it was a life-or-death decision.
Some things hadn't changed. In our old apartment, she'd done the exact same thing. Spent an entire weekend reorganizing, only to decide she hated the system and start over.
I'd watched her do it three times before I learned to just stay out of the way.
The apartment looked different now. Not in ways a stranger would notice.
But I noticed.
Her books crowded my shelves. Journalism memoirs mixed with true crime, dog-eared paperbacks stacked next to my firefighting manuals.
Her corkboard dominated the spare room, notes and photos and the organized chaos of whatever story she was chasing.
Post-its in her handwriting appeared in random places. On the fridge. On the bathroom mirror. On my nightstand:Your snoring woke me up at 3am. We need to talk.
Her coffee mug beside mine in the cabinet, the one with the chipped handle she refused to throw away. Her shampoo taking over an entire shelf in the shower. Her press credentials on the hook where my spare jacket used to be. My order. Her chaos. It had driven me crazy the first time. Now I couldn't imagine the apartment without it.
My order. Her chaos. It had driven me crazy the first time we'd lived together. Now I couldn't imagine the apartment without it.
Years ago, we'd built a home. Then we'd lost it. Lost each other.
Coming home to silence. Eating dinner standing at the counter. Filling the quiet with the TV just to have something other than my own thoughts.
I'd told myself I liked it that way.
I'd been lying to myself.
Living with Sloane again was like remembering how to breathe.
The laptop open on the coffee table. The shoes kicked off by the door. The notes scattered across every horizontal surface. The way she talked to herself when she was working through a problem, muttering fragments I couldn't quite follow.
The sandwiches I left on her desk when she forgot to eat. Gone without a word.
She still sang in the shower. Badly. Off-key renditions of songs I didn't recognize, belted out with complete confidence.
