The one we planned in half-joking, half-serious conversations when the world felt small and far away.
“I want a big kitchen,” I’d said once, tracing patterns on his chest.
“Like, big big. Enough space to cook and dance at the same time.”
“You don’t dance,” he’d teased.
“I do if no one’s watching.”
“I’ll always be watching,” he’d said, voice low, serious in a way that made my stomach flip.
I blink hard.
Because there it is.
The big kitchen.
Even from outside, I can see it through the front windows—open, wide, moonlight spilling across counters that look like they were built for more than just function.
Built for living.
For laughing.
For us.
My hands start to shake.
I push the door open and step out of the van slowly, like if I move too fast, this will disappear.
Like it’s not real.
The air is warm against my skin, the scent of wood and fresh construction lingering faintly around the place.
It’s not completely finished.
I can see that now.
Tools still stacked near the side. A ladder leaning against the porch. Some trim not quite done.
Bare patches of earth where landscaping hasn’t been finished.
But it’s close.
So damn close.
And it’s perfect.
A choked sound escapes me before I can stop it.
“He built it,” I whisper.
Of course he did.
Of course Benjamin Gunner would take a dream and turn it into something solid, something real, something you could stand in, and touch.
He always was like that.
Take an idea.
