When I step back inside, she’s stirring.
Her eyes flutter open.
She blinks at me like she’s making sure I’m real.
“Morning,” she murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
“Morning.”
She pushes up on her elbows, blanket sliding down her shoulder. “You make coffee now?”
“I always did.”
She smiles faintly. I hand her the mug. She wraps both hands around it and breathes in deeply. The silence between us isn’t tense. It’s expectant.
She stands and walks past me to the porch without asking. Like she belongs here.
She does.
I follow her out into the bright sunshine. The mountains stretch endless and bright.
She leans against the railing, sipping her coffee, watching the light climb.
“You were serious last night, right?” she says quietly.
“Yeah.”
“No more pretending.”
“No more.”
She glances over her shoulder at me. “You’re different.”
“How?”
“You’re not holding back.”
I step closer. “I’m tired of losing you.”
Her throat moves when she swallows.
“You didn’t lose me,” she says softly. “You let me go.”
“I won’t again.” The certainty in my voice surprises even me.
She sets her mug down on the railing.
“You’re not scared?” she asks.
“Terrified.”
“Of what?”
“Of screwing this up.”
She turns fully toward me now. “You can’t control everything.”
“I’m not trying to.”
