“Good,” he said. “Because I’m not really capable of subtle ones.”
He bent, scooping her up before she could protest. She yelped, arms flying around his neck.
“Hank,” she said, laughing. “You’re going to throw out your back.”
“Rude,” he said. “I’m a finely tuned athlete.”
“You’re a mechanic with good cardio,” she said.
“Same thing,” he replied.
He carried her the few steps to the sunlit patch by the windows and set her down gently on the drop cloth, following her down, bracing his weight on his hands.
The kiss that followed was slower, deeper; less about the adrenaline of new decisions and more about the quiet certainty underneath them. His hands slid along her sides, callused palms familiar and grounding. Her fingers curled in his T-shirt, tugging him closer.
Clothes didn’t come off all at once, but piece by piece; a shirt tugged over his head, her tank top peeled away, jeans half unzipped. The afternoon light painted them in gold, catching the curve of his shoulder, the rise and fall of his chest.
He moved carefully, giving her space to say no at every point, even now. She didn’t. She pulled him closer instead, arching into the heat of him, the ring cool against his skin where her hand slid along his back.
There was nothing frantic in it. No fear they were trying to outrun. Just two people who had chosen each other, again and again, anchoring it in skin and breath.
Later, when they lay tangled on the crinkled drop cloth, the studio smelling faintly of sweat and paint, she traced idle patterns on his chest.
“We’re going to need a couch,” she murmured.
“For the studio?” he asked, eyes half closed.
“For the house,” she said. “I’m not explaining paint stains on the bedroom floor to your insurance agent.”
He laughed sleepily. “We’ll add it to the list,” he said. “Couch, bed frame, and eighteen fire extinguishers to make Colby happy.”
“Bridal registry is going to be weird,” she said.
“Functional,” he corrected. “People will appreciate the clarity.”
"I'll need to go home and pack up my stuff. Give notice to my landlord. Hug my parents. Are you ready to come with me?"
He nodded. "I have to do the same. Let's plan for later this week. We'll need the furniture for the house."
She rolled onto her side, propping her head on her hand. “You know what I’m looking forward to most?” she asked.
“Hot water that isn’t timed by the front desk?” he guessed.
“That too,” she said. “But I meant this. Waking up in that farmhouse, coming here, climbing these stairs, and seeing work in progress. Not in a guest room in my parents' house, not borrowed, not temporary. Ours.”
He reached up, brushing her hair back from her face. “You’re really in,” he said quietly, as if testing the shape of it one more time.
She looked at the ring on her finger, at the paintings around them, at the dust motes swirling in the light.
“Yeah,” she said. “I’m in.”
Outside, a gull cried. Somewhere below, the faint sound of the bay door rolling echoed briefly; Jason, probably, coming to grab a tool he’d forgotten. Life, already moving around them.
Bree sat up, pulling her shirt back on, not bothering with the paint streaks. She crossed to Bryn’s painting in the corner, touching the edge of the canvas lightly.
“We’re going to need more names,” she said.
Hank pushed up on his elbows. “You okay?” he asked.
