He blinks. "The fake dating rules?"
"Mm-hmm. Remember? Rule four specifically stated clear professional boundaries." I'm fighting a smile and losing badly. "We violated that pretty thoroughly."
"We violated all the rules."
"Extensively." I thread my fingers through his. "Repeatedly."
"Think we should write new ones?"
"Absolutely." I lean in until our foreheads touch. "Rule one: No more fake anything."
"Rule two," he murmurs against my lips. "Morning coffee on the porch is mandatory."
"Rule three: Sage gets unlimited visiting privileges but has to text first."
"She'll never follow that one."
"Worth a shot." I kiss him, slow and sweet and real. "Rule four: We stay. Together. In Ashwood Falls. Building this life."
"Best rule yet," he says, and kisses me back.
Somewhere in the woods, a branch cracks. We both turn just in time to see Morris the moose emerge from the tree line, heading straight for our porch with the kind of determination that suggests he's been waiting for this exact moment.
"Morris, no—" Ryder starts.
Too late. The moose plants himself at the base of the porch steps, looking between us with what I swear is judgment.
"He's been showing up every time we're out here," I say. "It's like he knows."
"Knows what?"
"That we're disgustingly happy and he wants to ruin it." But I'm laughing, because this is exactly how our story goes. The moose who photobombed our first date is here for the real declaration of forever.
Ryder stands, grabs his phone, and before I can ask what he's doing, he's pulling me up and positioning us for a selfie. "Come on. The followers will love this."
"I thought we were having a moment."
"We are. We're just documenting it." He snaps the photo—me laughing, him grinning, Morris looming in the background like the world's largest third wheel. "Perfect. Caption?"
"'Six months later, still can't shake the moose. Or the firefighter. Keeping both.'"
"Excellent." He posts it, then sets his phone aside and pulls me close again. "Where were we?"
"Rule four," I remind him. "Staying together. Building this life."
"Right." His hand cups my jaw, thumb brushing my cheekbone. "And rule five?"
"Rule five?"
"The one where I tell you I love you." His voice drops, serious now. "Not for content. Not for followers. Not because it makes a good story. Just because it's true."
The key feels warm in my hand. The evening air smells like pine and possibility. Morris is still watching us like a judgmental chaperone. And the man I fake-dated into real love is looking at me like I'm the best decision he ever made.
"That's a good rule," I whisper. "I love you too."
When we kiss, Morris makes a sound that might be approval or might be disgust—with moose, it's hard to tell. We ignore him, lost in each other and this life we're building and the absolute certainty that this is real.
Later, after Morris finally wanders off and we've moved inside to avoid the mosquitoes, Ryder pulls up the photo he posted. It's already got fifteen thousand likes and three hundred comments.
