Mia Thorne: guardian.
My hand shook so much I nearly botched the signature. But he was there, steadying me without a word, just his presence.
Then there’s work—or the lack of it. I’ve started applying for remote gigs. Nothing glamorous, but enough to remind me I’m still me, and I have a life while Lily’s at school. When I called to tell Pres I got my first interview, he came back home and popped a Nosecco.
The scrapbook’s running out of pages, the hallway twine can’t hold another photo, and Lily’s drawing still rules the fridge. Every inch of this place feels alive with what we made of it. Maybe that’s why the silence hits so loud when I remember it’s all on borrowed time.
He doesn’t know I still wake up sometimes, counting weeks.
Less than three left on my visa. Sixteen days, if I stop rounding up to fool my nerves.
Joy shouldn’t come with an expiration date, but mine’s stamped and ticking.
I’m still awake when he rolls over, tucks me close, murmurs against my neck, “Don’t slip away from me. You said you trust me.”
“I do,” I whisper, trying not to tremble.
“Then let me handle this. We’ll move to London if we have to. Nothing’s going to tear us apart.”
“Pres, you can’t just uproot?—”
His arm bands tighter around my waist. “Trust. Me.”
His heartbeat’s steady against my back, mine isn’t. I turn so he can see my face when I say his favorite words again. “I do.”
He smiles—the kind that could sell ice to Eskimos. “I won’t let you down.”
Air rushes from my lungs. No one’s ever said that to me and meant it. Not my parents. Not anyone. And again, I trust him.
He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t press.
Maybe that’s trust. Not asking for the footnotes.
Tomorrow’s Friday. Lily’s got a sleepover with Callie and April, which means one glorious thing: we’ve got the house to ourselves.
Pres promised me fire, wine, cheese, and the smell of burned paper before bed. The rest of my list is going up in smoke, one wish at a time. I’m counting down the hours.
We just need to stop by a few stores first; there’s a special one he wants to take me.
Still, my chest feels tight with the kind of joy that always costs something.
The universe loves a setup, and this happiness? It’s begging for a twist.
I smile anyway. That’s tomorrow Mia’s problem.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
mia
This will bethe first time he’s used the fireplace since I arrived, and I’m more excited than any self-respecting adult should be about crackling flames and toasted marshmallows.
We’re stocking up for our night in—wine, cheese, wood, and the kind of quiet that promises more. Pres stacked the wood by size this morning, laid out blankets by the fireplace, even found the exact Barolo I raved about once in a voice note.
Preston takes me to this tiny charcuterie shop he found. Twinkle lights tangled around hanging hams, a bell that chimes every time the door opens, and a shopkeeper who treats every salami as his legacy. I already have crackers and baguettes peeking out of my tote, and next we’re heading to the cheese store where I plan to go absolutely bonkers.
The owner is a talker and a believer in endless samples. Preston listens with that intent look that makes people open up, like the man’s explaining philosophy instead of pork curing.
I lean into his side, and his arm comes around me automatically. His thumb slips under the waistband of my jeans, finding skin, the way he always does.
