Maybe was not a no.
Maybe, from Destiny, was a door cracked open.
I had learned not to kick doors down.
Downstairs, the little house stood around us with its green tile, quartz counters, saved floors, rosemary by the porch, and one dramatic basil plant fighting for its life in the back garden.
A place where nothing bad had happened yet.
A place waiting to become ours slowly.
Destiny’s fingers slid over my scar again, gentle and unafraid.
“You know,” she said, “the bedroom needs curtains.”
I smiled into her hair.
“What kind?”
“Not white. Too bridal.”
“Agreed.”
“Maybe linen. Something warm.”
I reached blindly for the nightstand, where my phone sat.
She lifted her head. “What are you doing?”
“Making a note.”
Her mouth fell open. “Right now?”
“Yes.”
“Dylan.”
“What? Curtains matter.”
She stared at me for half a second.
Then she laughed.
Really laughed.
In the bed I had chosen. In the house I had built. In the life I had almost been too scared to reach for.
I put the phone back without making the note and rolled carefully toward her again.
“Fine,” I said. “Curtains later.”
Her smile faded into something warmer as I touched her cheek.
“Later,” she whispered.
I kissed her.
Because we had later now.
