“That’s not yours, you gremlin!”
“Oh shit, is this for me too?” Win asks, untangling from me to inspect it. Swatting Mitz off, he plucks something from the top and gasps.
“New headphones?”
I sigh. “As usual, my mother has to one-up me.”
He pauses exploring the obscene amount of shit Ma gifted him to make a sad-puppy face at me. “Aww, are you getting jealous of my bounty, Sir Remington?”
“You’re a spoiled brat, Prince Winston.”
His grin widens. “Yourspoiled brat.”
I can’t help grinning back. “Get over here and kiss me again, you idiot.”
He’s on me in half a second, arms wrapped around my neck, kissing me like I’m his oxygen and he’s been underwater, fighting to the surface. I hold him close, breathing him in too.
“We’re gonna keep healing together, ok?” I whisper, grasping his face. “You and me? We’re gonna be ok because we’ve got each other. Always.”
“And forever.”
Love is a natural wonder healing all wounds.
I guess I’m a romantic after all.
Epilogue
Remy
Busy work. That’s all internships are: endless, pointlessbusy work. Like this report. Why the fuck do I need to include a three-page summary of a meeting when the person receiving this fucking useless essay was there too?
“This is a colossal waste of time,” I mutter.
From the other room, a violin screeches over a missed note, followed by a curse. I smirk. Seems like I’m not the only one frustrated with work.
Initially, Win recorded songs he taught himself for fun. When I suggested he upload his covers to streaming services, he was skeptical. His listening base was small at first, but he really popped off after I posted a video on social media of him playing. Almost a year later, he’s making music full-time, supporting both of us while I finish my unpaid internship.
Thank fuck it’s my last week.
Anxiety bubbles up again. Next Monday, I start my first real job working for a children and teen therapy practice bordering CapeCannon and South Manor Harbor fifteen minutes from our new apartment.
Living with Win was the best and worst decision I’ve ever made. He’s in a constant state of half-dressed, which is both a gift and the most distracting thing ever. My dick doesn’t know how to deflate. And he has the metabolism of a teenager— the guy eats anything and everything and never gains a pound while I have to slave away at the gym to stay in shape. Also my cat barely acknowledges me unless he’s out— which is only once or twice a week to visit his parents in Fort Manor. Their relationship is still pretty strained but in therapy, Win agreed to open himself up to them and make an effort.While we both have bad days and setbacks, they’re becoming rarer.He’s come so far. I have too.I pinch myself daily.
“That’s not English.”
I jolt in surprise. “Jesus!”
Win grunts as the chair back hits his chest. “I don’t remember rising from the dead and starting a cult…”
Rolling my eyes, I mutter, “Dumbass.”
He snickers.
What he initially said finally registers. Squinting at the paragraph on my laptop, I’m confronted with my own gibberish.
“I haven’t edited yet, dick.”
My chair spins.
