“You give me everything. Even when I don’t ask.”
He lifts a hand, brushing damp hair off my forehead. His eyes—those warm, dark eyes—don’t look away for a second. “You deserve everything.”
God. This man.
We stay that way, tangled and quiet, breathing the same air, hearts still syncing from the high of it.
And then?—
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
My eyes fly open.
“Oh shit. The cookies!”
Chapter 21
Magnolia Steel
Malie’s hands are magic but not the flashy kind. Quiet. Patient. Purposeful. Sacred.
I sit cross-legged beside her on a folded blanket, pandanus strips lying between us in neat bundles—thin, ivory ribbons with soft edges like silk.
This has become our rhythm. A few afternoons a week after work, while Alex is still at practice, I come here. No fanfare. No mention of it to anyone. Only me and his mother showing me how to make something that means everything.
I’ve stopped needing to count the motions. My hands remember what to do now—fold, thread, pull taut.
The mat stretched out on the floor isn’t for me. It’s for him. A gift. A tribute. A vow made to my husband-to-be with my own hands.
I glance at Malie, who watches my movements and gives a small nod.
This palagi is doing it right.
“You’re getting faster,” she says.
“I’m still slow as molasses.”
“Slow is fine. It means you’re putting care into it.”
I smile at that because I am.
“This is more than a gift,” she says, guiding a fresh strip into my fingers. “This is your promise to my son—woven by hand. Carried by your heart.”
I don’t respond to that. Because I can’t. My throat is too tight.
Malie told me once that a fine mat is never just an object. It’s memory. Legacy. It’s presented at births, weddings, and funerals. It holds stories in its weave. Each one can take months to complete, but I’m determined to finish this mat on time for our wedding.
I thread another strip through, careful and slow.
Each weave is a whisper of respect. Each knot is a vow to stand beside him, knowing exactly what that means. This mat isn’t decoration. It’s my tangible devotion to him.
He doesn’t know I’m doing this. Not yet. But when he sees it—when he understands what it is—I hope he feels every hour invested, every careful knot, every bit of love I weaved into it.
Our rhythm slows, and Malie’s hands are still over the fibers. “I have some bad news.”
I glance up, heart beating a little faster now. “What is it?”
Her fingers toy with a loose edge of pandanus, smoothing it once… twice… before she speaks.
