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“Oh, cool.” I nod. “And then what?” I ask as my eyes sweep over his spacious crème couches and dark, wooden coffee table. Only a single green plant, a black-marbled bowl, and a few books decorate the space, sitting directly on the coffee table.

But then he points above his fireplace, and I see my painting. Orhispainting now. It complements the room perfectly, and vise-versa. I can see why he chose it—if not for the somber reason he already admitted to.

And I won’t lie. The knowledge that a piece of me has been taking up space in his home well before I walked through those doors tonight warms my insides. Makes my heart flutter in my chest.

“I like it,” I admit, though I’m sure it comes off as a simple compliment rather than the marking of territory my ego clearly intends it to be. I can’t help it, though. Some part of me likes it very much.

“Me too,” he says, his voice rough, and I’m immediately proved wrong. His eyes communicate what his words don’t—that he knows exactly what I meant, and he wholeheartedly agrees. “Come on.” He pulls me outside with a soft smirk caught between his teeth, through his back doors. And the warmth I’ve been feeling tonight spreads somewhere else entirely.

His backyard manages to redirect my attention, though. For the most part, anyway.

“Wow, what a dream,” the words come out on a breath. Because this view is…wow. This view, it’s all of the most beautiful parts of Seattle, right here in his back yard. From the overgrown trees hovering above his guest house and pool, to the view of the city below—it’s incredible. “How do you ever drag yourself out of this house?” I ask him, more than serious. I’d never leave.

I mean, we live in a world where everything I would ever need could be brought to my front door in a matter of minutes—hours, days tops—so I actually don’t think I would ever leave.

He chuckles softly. “I’ve thought about it a few times. But there’s a lot of life to be lived outside of these walls, too.”

“This is true.” I smile. “I still think I’d like to try and bring that world back here, though, so I’d have to leave a whole lot less.”

A deep, insightful look passes over his features. “Note taken,” he says, and he clears his throat. “Let me show you the rest of the house.”

I nod, swallowing thickly as he leads me back inside, the warmth of his hand enveloping mine.

We make our way down his hallway, and I stop to admire the pictures of him and his band hanging on the wall. There are four of them, spaced a good distance apart. I study them one by one.

A candid of them backstage. A posed photo in front of an old, crumbling building in Los Angeles. And two from mid-show, in a House of Blues somewhere. One from the front of the band, and one from the back of them—looking out at the impressive crowd full of excited eyes, and mouths held open, frozen in time, singing along to one of their songs.

“What’s that like?” I ask him, genuinely wanting to know the answer. I can’t imagine what that kind of success feels like. So many souls connected to yours in that way.

He thinks it over for a few moments, taking his answer seriously, and I add this to the growing list of new things I like about him. That, and the emotion that passes through his eyes. I can see how much he recognizes the weight of the gift he’s been given, and it’s obvious he doesn’t take any of it for granted.

“Indescribable,” he answers with a layer of awe and appreciation, and I know without a doubt that he means it.

I’m happy for him, incredibly happy for him; he deserves all of his success and more.

We continue down the hallway, initiated by the slight tug of my hand in his. “How long have you lived in Seattle?” he switches gears.

“Almost eight years now.” I swallow, pushing past the weight of that fact, and his head dips down in a nod of understanding as he pulls me around yet another corner of his house.

We go on and on like this, walking through each room of his beautiful home, asking and answering small questions, getting to know each other again.

His guest rooms are spacious and minimalistic, with small plants here and there and a single piece of artwork hanging in each room. Wooden filigree in one, a famous photograph in another, and an ornate mirror in the third.

“You said you went to WSU?” he asks.

“Yep.” I smile.

“What did you major in?”

“Business with a minor in Arts,” I answer, one of my smiles melting into the next.

He nods again. “Do you plan to open your own gallery someday?”

“I don’t know…” I consider his question, sliding my hands into my back pockets. “Maybe.” I shrug. The idea has been there for a long time, lingering in the back of my mind. But it’s always felt like a far-fetched dream rather than a realistic goal.

“And how’s your family?” he completely switches gears again.

“Good. They’re really good.” I smile again—for the millionth time tonight, really.