His reply is instant.
Baby:I’ll be there.
I toss my bag back in the locker so I’m not lugging it around, and head out.
The sun’s already starting its descent.
I’m barely keeping pace with Gabe, and my chest is heaving.
He glances back at me over his shoulder, expression thoughtful, like he’s weighing something before saying, “I usually only come through the forest when I’m having a bad day.”
“Is today a bad day?” I ask cautiously as we slow to a jog. I thought it started perfectly, but his tone makes me second-guess. Maybe this morning was too much for him?
We stop by the water. The surface ripples under a light breeze, the last of the sunlight flickering over it. Gabe stares out, transfixed. A few moments pass. When I glance at him again, he’s still watching the water, a small furrow between his brows.
“Gabe?”
He shakes his head. Hands on his hips, still catching his breath, he looks away from the water and down at his shoes. “Sorry. No. It’s been a great day.”
When he lifts his head, that shy smile is there—the one that has a direct line to my heart. It takes everything in me not to grab his face and kiss him.
His eyes soften. “I… I really like running together. I know it’s a small thing but…” His smile grows wider.
I grin back, still trying to breathe normally. “Yeah, me too. Even if my legs are about to fall off.”
He chuckles, his eyes twinkling. I know he thinks it’s ridiculous that I struggle so much on our runs. I really shouldn’t, considering we’ve been running together for months now, but apparently cardio will never come easy to me.
“Do you ever swim here?” I ask, it’s a popular spot in the summer. I came a few times with Aiden in our teens.
“No. I’m not a great swimmer, actually.”
I look at him, imagining spending time here in the warmer months. “I could teach you if you like? When the weather picks up.”
He hums in acknowledgment without actually answering me. Maybe he’s not comfortable with the lake, we could try an indoor pool instead. There’s one the next town over.
We find a bench near the edge of the lake, beside the large willow tree the town is apparently named after. The forest area issoft with light. The air smells like warm earth and rain-drenched grass. The sky is a breathtaking watercolor of pinks and oranges.
Gabe sits beside me, long legs stretched out, one arm hooked casually over the back of the bench. His hair catches the fading light, waves turning copper at the edges. He’s telling me about the book he just finished—something soft and romantic, the kind I’ve learned he loves most.
“There was this line,” he says conversationally, “where the author described the main character’s smile as ‘a quiet kind of miracle.’ I thought it was a bit much.”
“Bit much?” I echo. “I have to disagree with you there.”
“Oh, do you now?” he says in that dry tone he uses when being playful.
“Yes, I do. That’s practicallyyoursmile,” I shoot back.
He groans, “You can’t just say things like that.”
“Why not? You’re sitting here being all miraculous.”
“You’re such a flirt!”
He thinks I’m joking, but I’m not. Every smile he lets me see feels extraordinary to me. To know what he’s been through, how he struggles with his own mind, and still, he gives me those smiles.
He tries to glare, but it crumbles—his lips twitch, and then the laugh hits him, full and bright, spilling out before he can stop it. He tips his head back, and I swear, for a second, everything in me stills just to hear it.
I turn to look at him fully, and that’s when I see it.
