His eyes search mine, waiting for an answer.
I release a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. “Thank you,” I whisper. “You have no idea how much that means to me. That reassurance… it matters. It matters more than I want to admit.”
He gently sets me back on solid ground, pulling me closer into the heat of his chest. The steady rhythm of hisheartbeat hums against my ear, lulling the nerves under my skin. I push up onto my toes, cupping his jaw in both hands. He leans into my touch without hesitation, like it’s second nature now.
“I-I finally feel happy,” I say, the words coming out like a confession. “Truly happy. I don’t need my dad’s money. That crutch he held over my head for years, it’s gone. And now I know I can stand on my own and still thrive. My mommy… she’d be so proud of me.”
His hands come up, his fingers thread between mine as he leans his forehead to mine again. He doesn’t say anything as he holds me there, his breath warm and even against my skin.
His silence speaks louder than anything; his presence is like a safety net beneath everything I’ve worked for.
For the first time in years, I feel free.
All the nights at the bar, the blisters, the aching feet, and the nights I cried myself to sleep thinking I’d never be more than a fuck-up… It’s led to this. To me, standing here, in his arms, on the cusp of something that’s mine.
Not borrowed. Not given.Mine.
Even now, with a dream in reach and the man I love holding me like I’m something sacred, I’m not entirely free. Not with the weight of my father still shackled to my wrists. The thought of him makes my body rigid. Carter feels it and pulls me even closer, as he presses a kiss to my forehead like it might melt the tension away.
“You should talk to him,” he whispers, “say what you need to say. And if he doesn’t listen, if he doesn’t care? Then you don’t owe him a damn thing. Blood or not.”
I shake my head against his chest, my voice barely a whisper. “He won’t care, Carter. He never has. I’ve alwaysjust been a pawn in his game. And the worst part is… some sick part of me still doesn’t want to let go.”
He lets out a deep grunt, his chest vibrating against my cheek. He doesn’t say anything else or try to change my mind. He simply wraps his arms around me tighter, as if he’s shielding me from everything outside of this moment.
“I care,” he says softly, his lips brushing my hair.
For me, that’s enough.
Carter’s gotthe windows down, his hand gripping the wheel, as the other rests comfortably on my thigh, his thumb brushing lazy circles over the denim of my jeans. The wind rips through the cab of the truck, whipping strands of my hair around my face, but I don’t care. I’ve got my infamous playlist blasting—the one Carter always claims to hate but weirdly hasn’t turned off yet.
My current hyperfixation song comes on, and I don’t even hesitate. I belt out the chorus like a shrieking baboon, off-key and overly dramatic, throwing in some wild hand gestures for emphasis like I’m a headliner at Electric Daisy Carnival.
“COME AND FIND ME OUT WHERE THE SKY BEGINSSS!” I scream-sing at the top of my lungs, my voice borderline feral as I throw my head back dramatically.
“WHERE THE SUN CRASHES INTO THE SEA—” I belt out, my arms out like I’m performing for a crowd of thousands instead of just one very grumpy cowboy.
“THERE’S A WALL MADE OF SOUND, ANDIT’S CAVING IN! YOU’LL BE LIGHT YEARS AWAY FROM MEE!”
I pause for dramatic effect.
“COME AND FIND ME OUT WHERE THE SKY BEGINSSS!”
I glance over, mid-head banging, expecting him to be scowling or rolling his eyes.
But he’s not. He’s smiling again.
A slow, lazy smile stretches across his lips, so rare that it actually makes my breath stutter. That sharp jawline of his softens, and his lips twitch up into the kind of grin that punches me straight in the chest. His eyes stay on the road, but every part of him feels tuned in to me.
God, he’s beautiful when he smiles like this.
He lets me be. Le’ts me sing too fucking loud and off-key. Let’s me throw my hands around like I’m on stage and not in his truck. He doesn’t make me feel small or try to mold me into something quieter. He lets me be big. Bold. A little messy. He creates space for all of it, without ever asking for anything in return.
Maybe that’s what it really is. Love, I mean. Not the curated, perfect ones I would see in rom-coms.
But the kind that sees you exactly as you are. Someone who doesn’t flinch when you’re loud or unfiltered. Someone who doesn’t ask you to change and who can hold a safe space for the beautiful parts of you, but also the chaotic, messy, and ugly parts. The parts that talk too much, feel too hard, and panic out of nowhere. The kind of love that doesn’t try to fix you; it just chooses you.
My heart’s still fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings when Bell’s Books comes into view. The familiar storefront blurs a little as tears sting my eyes, but I blink them back, pressing my hands to my chest.
