Page 112 of The Summer We Lie

"I meant get you as in get you back," he clarifies quickly, his voice urgent now, and just like that, relief floods through me so fast it makes me dizzy. "Get you back with me. For real this time."

"How will that work?" I ask, trying to be practical even as my heart races against my ribs. "We live so far apart and have completely different lives. You have your career, your world⁠—"

"I'm here," he says, cutting me off. "I can stay here as long as you want. For a week, a semester, until you finish school, or forever."

I blink at him, stunned into silence. Forever. He said forever like it was a real option, like it was something he'd actually considered. "You can't stay here forever," I say finally, "You have your job, your house, and friends back there. Your life is there."

"I can work from anywhere," he says like it's the simplest thing in the world, like he hasn't just suggested upending his entire existence. "And I can buy a new house. A better one. Whatever you want."

The casual way he says it—like money and distance and completely changing his life are just minor details to work out—makes my head spin. "Why?" I ask, my voice cracking on the single word. "Why would you do this? Why would you give up everything?"

His expression softens, and he takes another step closer until I can feel the warmth radiating from his body. "Because I love you, Skye. Like I've never loved anyone before."

I step back until my legs hit the couch, and I sink down onto it heavily, my knees suddenly unable to hold my weight. Did he just say he loves me? I must be dreaming or having some kind of breakdown because there's no way Dominic Grayson just told me he loves me.

He comes over and kneels down in front of me, his large hands coming to rest on my knees. His dark eyes are intense and sincere, holding mine with an unwavering focus that makes it impossible to look away.

"I love you, Skye," he repeats, each word deliberate and clear. His hands slide up to capture mine, his fingers warm and strong as they intertwine with my smaller ones. "I'm sorry I said this was a mistake. It was anything but that. It was everything. You're everything."

My eyes fill with tears that blur my vision, making him waver like a mirage. "But Harper⁠—"

"I talked to Harper," he says firmly, his thumbs stroking over my knuckles in a gesture so tender it makes my chest ache. "She's hurt, and she has every right to be. But she told me she doesn't want to stand in our way."

"She did?" The question comes out in a whisper, hope and disbelief warring in my chest.

He nods, and there's something in his expression—relief, maybe, or gratitude. "I think she saw how serious I am about you. How completely gone I am. And she loves you too much to lose you completely over this."

I search his face for any sign of hesitation or doubt, any hint that he's not sure about this monumental decision he's apparently made. But there isn't any. Just pure, focused intensity that takes my breath away.

"You'd really move to Pennsylvania?" I ask, still struggling to believe this is real. "For me?"

"I'd move anywhere for you," he says without hesitation, his voice rough with emotion. "I don't care where I am as long as you're there. As long as you're mine."

A tear slips down my cheek, warm and unexpected, and he catches it with his thumb before it can fall. The gesture is so gentle, so careful, that it breaks something open in my chest.

"Say something, baby," he whispers, his voice barely audible. "Please."

"I love you too," I whisper back, the words tumbling out like a confession I've been holding back for too long. "I've been miserable without you. Completely lost."

He pulls me into his arms then, and I melt into him, breathing in his scent and feeling the solid warmth of his chest against my cheek. Finally, finally, I feel like I can breathe again, like the world has shifted back into focus after days of everything being blurry and wrong.

Chapter Forty-Eight

Two months later

Skye

I climb the stairs to our apartment, pulse pounding with every step like a drumbeat against my ribs. The key rattles violently in my trembling hand as I try to steady my breathing, the metal slipping against my sweaty palm. It's been so long since I've faced Harper—too long to go without your best friend, without the person who knows every secret, every fear, every dream you've ever whispered in the dark.

Inside, our apartment looks exactly the same as I left it two days ago. My art supplies still scattered across the coffee table in organized chaos—charcoal sticks, sketch pads, tubes of paint squeezed from the middle the way Harper always teases me about.

I drop my bag on the couch with more force than necessary and immediately start pacing the living room. Six steps to the window, pivot, eight steps to the kitchen doorway, turn around. Repeat. The clock on the wall ticks loudly, each second an accusation marking time that brings Harper closer. Two months of strained text messages—the kind where you type and delete and type again, searching for the right words that don't exist—and awkward navigation around each other's lives can't prepare me for seeing her face to face. For looking into those green-gold eyes that have been my anchor since sixth grade and seeing... what? Disappointment? Anger? Acceptance?

My phone vibrates against the coffee table, cutting through my spiral of anxiety. Dom's name lights up the screen.

Dom: Made it home safe. You okay?

I smile despite my nerves, despite the way my stomach feels like it's doing gymnastics. Even when we’re apart, he knows I'm probably falling apart right now.