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He paused, a fork halfway to his mouth, then set it down. “Do you want it to be?” His tone was cautious, tinged with hope.

“Yes,” I replied without hesitation, excited and nervous at the admission.

Alex sighed deeply, the tension leaving his body. A broad smile spread across his face. “Good, me too.”

After a few more bites, Alex's energy shifted to something more playful, more reminiscent of our younger days. “Hey,” he said, setting his plate aside and sliding off the bed. He moved to the shelf and pulled out an old photo album. The cover was faded and worn, and the wordMemorieswas embossed across the front in script.

“Look at this!” he exclaimed, flipping through the pages, his tongue poking out the side of his mouth as he focused. Then, he turned the album to face me, revealing a school photo from our senior year in AP English. Mr. Everett-Thompson stood at the back, a figure of authority amidst a sea of youthful faces.

There I was, in the school uniform of Lomax-Barton Prep, buttoned up and tidy—the perpetual good boy on a scholarship. Beside me, Alex, ever the contrast, hung off my shoulder, his tieloose, his hair scruffy. His grin was wide, and he held his fingers in rabbit ears behind us. The image captured a moment of pure youthful joy and camaraderie, a snapshot of simpler times, and I waited for grief at recalling the person I'd once been to hit me.

Only there was nothing.

Seeing us like that, captured in the frozen moment, brought back a flood of memories—afternoons spent debating literature, sneaking out to the back of the school to share secrets with the boy who'd stolen my heart, the promise of a future we hadn't yet imagined might pull us apart.

I reached out to trace the figures in the photograph, a smile creeping onto my face. “We look like we were having the time of our lives,” I said, my voice a blend of amusement and wistfulness.

Alex leaned closer, his shoulder brushing mine as we peered at the photo. “We were,” he agreed softly. “And maybe… you know, Jazz, I was hoping we could have this date, and then another one, and then, maybe another one after that?”

I glanced up at him and waited again for panic and grief.

Ideservedgrief.

Where were those feelings now?

I waited to talk for so long that the silence became awkward, and his smile dipped a little. I was fucking this up.

Instead of grief, pain, and loss, I felt a quiet peace in my head. I placed my plate on the camping table and tugged him close between my spread legs.

“Alex?”

“Yeah?” He sounded so unsure.

“What were you hoping?”

“I don't know.” He,” he paused. “Maybe more. But I don't want to mess this up, and I know that?—”

“You make me feel so much hope,” I whispered, then pressed my head to his soft belly and sighed. I couldn't say the words yet, but they were there in my heart.

I love you too.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Alex

Over the month,Jazz and I had fallen into a comfortable routine of sharing meals in my tiny room, often ending with us lying side by side on my bed, chatting. With the kittens growing quickly, Scout and Mischief had already been adopted, leaving just Rascal, who seemed as much a part of our setup as the bed and the worn-out blankets, and always came with me to my room.

The kitten was curled in a tiny ball, looking innocent and cute, but my hands still bore the pinpricks of practice swipes and bites.

“He’s a fierce kitten,” Jazz whispered, stroking Rascal’s tiny head.

“Why are you whispering?” I was also whispering.

“I don’t want to wake him,” Jazz murmured.

I snorted a laugh—I couldn’t help it—and it was loud enough that Rascal snapped awake, yawned wide, then curled up to sleep again.

Right between us.