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“Depends. Ready to admit the ducks were asking for it last time?”

Just like that, the nervousness breaks.

The drive fills with easy conversation and comfortable silences, her bare feet propped on the dashboard as she tells me about the book she’s reading. No mention of work or boards or professional boundaries. Just two people enjoying each other’s company on a beautiful Saturday morning.

“You know,” she says, gesturing expressively with one hand while the other adjusts the radio, “this book argues that sustainability isn’t just about environmental impact – it’s about creating systems that can endure and evolve. Kind of like relationships.”

I glance over, catching the meaningful look in her eyes. “Are you saying our relationship is sustainable, Ms. Hastings?”

“I’m saying it has potential for optimal long-term viability, Mr. Walker.” Her teasing tone makes me laugh. “Though I haven’t completed all the necessary analytics yet.”

“I look forward to your comprehensive assessment.”

As we leave the town limits behind, the landscape transforms from suburban streets to country roads bordered by trees in full summer glory. Emma hums along to the radio, occasionally singing a line or two when she thinks I’m not paying attention. I pretend not to notice, enjoying this unguarded version of her too much to interrupt.

***

The lake appears around the bend, sunlight dancing across its surface just as I remember. I park in our usual spot, gravel crunching under the tires. The familiar wooden dock stretches over the water, its weathered gray planks bearing the marks of countless summers. Even the ancient oak we used to climbstands tall and unchanged, though I notice the rope swing is missing.

“They took it down after the Thompson kids tried to make it a zip line,” Emma says, following my gaze. “Apparently, not everyone has your talent for catching disaster-prone people mid-fall.”

“Just the one disaster-prone person.” The words come out soft, weighted with years of catching her in more ways than one.

She blushes, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. It’s been like this all week—moments charged with meaning, memories, and possibilities we’re finally free to explore.

I watch as she takes in the scene, her expression softening with nostalgia. This place holds so many chapters of our shared history—from afternoons when I helped her with calculus during her high school years to that day two summers ago when we almost acknowledged what was between us—before my father’s call interrupted, before everything got complicated.

“Come on.” I grab the picnic basket. “I want to show you something.”

We walk down to the dock, my feet instinctively avoiding the loose boards I still remember. Emma’s hand finds mine naturally, our fingers intertwining as we navigate the uneven path. The simple contact – her palm against mine – feels more significant than any corporate handshake or business deal I’ve ever made.

“Remember when you tried to teach me to skip stones?” she asks as we settle at the end of the dock, legs dangling over the water.

“You mean when you nearly started a duck rebellion?”

“They were very understanding ducks.” She picks up a smooth stone, turning it over in her hands. “You spent hours teaching me, even though I was terrible at it.”

“You weren’t terrible.” I watch her profile, illuminated by the morning light. The way the sun highlights the auburn in her hair, how her lashes cast slight shadows on her cheeks, the constellation of freckles across her nose that becomes more pronounced in summer. “You were determined. It’s one of the things I’ve always loved about you.”

The word slips out before I can catch it. Emma’s breath catches, and she turns to face me with widened eyes.

For a moment, we just look at each other, the magnitude of my admission hanging in the air between us. Not just attraction or chemistry, but love—the word I’ve been careful not to use, even in my thoughts.

“I almost didn’t come back,” I admit quietly. “When Dad died, I sat in my Manhattan office for hours, staring at plane tickets I couldn’t bring myself to book.”

“Why?”

“Because I knew coming back meant facing everything I’d been running from.” I meet her eyes, letting her see the truth I’ve been hiding. “In New York, I had the perfect life on paper. Made partner before thirty. Dating socialites. Living the dream everyone expected. But you know what I thought about most in that fancy corner office?”

She shakes her head slightly.

“That summer day, you convinced me to play hooky from my internship. We spent hours here, you teaching me about cloud shapes while I pretended I wasn’t falling—” I catch myself, but Emma’s fingers tighten in mine.

“Falling?” she prompts softly.

The water laps gently against the dock posts. A bird calls somewhere in the distance. Everything feels still, like the world is holding its breath while I finally admit what I’ve known for years.

“I missed you. Missed the way you saw through every act, every pretense.” The confession lifts a weight I’ve carried for too long. “I was so busy trying to be what everyone expected that I forgot how to be real. But you... you never accepted the facade. You made me feel like being myself was enough.”