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“And you’re sure,” I asked, searching his face, “that you don’t need a version of me that’s more … predictable?”
He leaned in, kissed my forehead, then my cheek, then the spot just below my ear that always made me shiver.
“I didn’t fall in love with predictable,” he murmured. “I fell in love with you.”
And just like that, every version of myself I’d ever been—ballet prodigy, adrenaline junkie, grieving daughter, woman reborn—settled into place.
Whole. Unhidden.
He pulled me closer, eyes dancing with something devilish. “You know,” he said, nodding toward the house, “we could keep this place just for wild sex when we visit.”
I choked on a laugh. “Just for that?”
“Well, and maybe beignets.”
I swatted his chest. “You’re incorrigible.”
He grinned. “You love that about me.”
“I do,” I said, threading my fingers through his. “And you’re not wrong. This place deserves some new memories.”
He stood, tugging me up with him. “Come on, Red. Let’s go christen your childhood bedroom. Think we can do it on a single mattress?”
I raised a brow. “That’s a little twisted, don’t you think?”
His mouth brushed my ear. “Exactly.”
I didn’t need more convincing.
We walked up the steps, through the door, and into the future we were choosing—messy, meaningful, a little wild.
And we made our first memory.