"Not really." I close it, setting it aside. "Got distracted."
"By what?"
"Memory lane."
He settles into the chair beside me, our shoulders touching. "Good memories or bad?"
"Good," I say softly. "Really good."
His hand finds mine, fingers intertwining with practiced ease. We sit in comfortable silence, watching the sky turn from gold to pink to purple.
"You know," he says after a while, "I never thought I'd have this again."
"Have what?"
"Peace." He squeezes my hand gently. "A home. Someone to share it with."
The words hit me right in the chest—that particular ache that comes from wanting something so badly and finally having it in your grasp.
"I didn't think I'd ever stop running," I admit. "Didn't think I could."
"But you did."
"We did."
He turns to look at me then, something intense in his gaze. "You changed everything, you know that?"
"Logan—"
"No, listen." He shifts to face me fully.
"When you showed up that night... I was surviving, not living. Going through the motions. Doing what needed to be done but never letting myself want more."
My throat tightens. "And now?"
"Now?" His free hand comes up to cup my cheek. "Now I want everything. With you. Whatever comes next."
The words hang between us, heavy with meaning.
"Everything's a lot," I whisper.
"Good thing we're good at handling 'a lot.'"
I laugh, but it comes out shaky. "True."
He leans in, resting his forehead against mine. "I love you, you know that?"
The words still make my heart stutter, even now. "I know. I love you too."
His kiss is gentle but thorough, full of promise and certainty. When we break apart, the sky has deepened to twilight, stars beginning to peek through.
"We should probably head in," he murmurs. "Before dinner gets cold."
"Did you actually cook?"
"Define 'cook.'"
I laugh, letting him pull me to my feet. "That bad?"
