We stay like that, wrapped in each other, while the sun cracks the sky and the lake turns from silver to blue. There’s a peace to it, a steadiness I never thought I’d find. After a while, I pull away and stretch, feeling the blood rush to my limbs.
“Did you ever think we’d make it this far?” I ask, picking at a loose thread on the jacket.
He thinks about it, then nods. “Yeah. I did. Maybe not here, or like this, but…” He gestures at the lake, the house, the world. “I always knew you’d land on your feet, baby.”
I snort. “I think I’m still falling.”
He grins, that wolfish flash of teeth that gets me every time. “Good. Wouldn’t want you to get boring.”
We walk back to the porch, hand in hand. Inside, the house is warm and full of light, and on the kitchen counter there are two mugs of coffee and a stack of college textbooks. I see my name in sharpie on a notebook, underlined twice: TARA MONROE.
He pours me a cup and slides it across. I wrap my hands around it, soaking in the heat.
“So,” he says, leaning on the counter, “first year down. Any regrets?”
I shake my head. “None that I can’t live with.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “You mean the time you got banned from the psych building for pulling a fire alarm?”
I laugh. “That was science. I was gathering data.”
He rolls his eyes but smiles, and I can tell he’s proud. He’s always been proud, even when I was a mess. Maybe especially then.
“Next year’s going to be even better,” I say, and I mean it.
He nods, pouring himself another cup. “You’re gonna own that place.”
We sit at the table, sunlight pouring in, and he tells me about his new venture—a recovery program for trauma survivors in the Twin Cities area, which will include immersion treatment, sensory retraining, and even equine-assisted therapy. He says he did it because of me, and it makes me so happy. Hunter wants to help others like me, and I’m grateful to him for his commitment.
The phone buzzes, and it’s my dad, already texting about this weekend’s plans. Our parents are coming out for a barbecue, and Catherine wants to know what dessert she can contribute. I laugh, thinking about how far we’ve come from awkward confessions at a restaurant. Now we’re just another happy couple with a lot of history, but not one iota of shame.
I lean back, stretching my legs under the table, and let the moment settle. There’s a peace in it, a wholeness I never knew I wanted.
Hunter watches me, blue eyes soft and fierce at once.
“You’re thinking something,” he says.
I smile sweetly. “I’m thinking I want you.”
He doesn’t hesitate. He never does. In a second, I’m in his arms, jacket slipping off my shoulders, his mouth on my neck, hands tracing every inch of skin like he’s memorizing it for later.
We don’t make it to the bedroom. We don’t even make it to the sofa. The morning sun lights us up right there on the kitchen floor, and I revel in it.
Because this is what a year of survival looks like: a thousand small victories, a thousand bigger defeats, and a love that burns through all of it.
When the passion is over, we lie tangled together, breathless and spent, and I realize I don’t miss Daisy, not really. She’s still with me, in the hunger and the laughter and the refusal to quit. But I don’t need her to take over anymore.
I’m me.
And I’m home.
The lake outside is bright with sunlight, the dock already drying, the world awake and alive. I watch the wind scatter the mist, and I think: I could do another year of this. I could do a whole lifetime.
Hunter kisses my shoulder, soft and slow.
“Happy anniversary, baby,” he whispers.
I smile, eyes closed.
