Page 49

HARPER

Love is beautiful.

I used to think it wasn't real, not to people like me at least.

I've learned love is not supposed to be loud declarations, showing you off to people, posting everything online, big moments just for attention.

Love is quiet, peaceful, steady. It doesn't need to shout to be real. It just is.

It's the way Millie pulls me in at night without saying a word, like it's the most natural thing in the world.

The way her hand always finds mine when we're walking down the street.

It's in the way she sees me—not as a mirror to reflect her light, not as an ornament, but as a person.

As her person. And I think that's what still gets me sometimes.

That she chose me, not for what I could offer or how I looked on her arm, but for my soul.

Months ago, I didn't know if I'd ever believe in this again. My mother was dying. I was coming undone in ways I didn't have words for. The grief was swallowing me whole, and the version of love I'd known before—loud, performative, demanding—had left me raw and cynical. Used. Hurt.

But now, I wake up every morning beside someone who lets me grieve in my own way.

Who never tries to fix me, only holds space for me to feel it all.

Who listens when I talk about my mom, and who flies with me to Florida just to sit on a quiet beach and let me cry.

She walked with me through the house I grew up in, let me show her old pictures of a little girl who didn't know heartbreak yet, who still believed the world was kind.

And somehow, with her, I believe in that again.

I used to think love had to be complicated. Chaotic. That if it wasn't all-consuming or dramatic, it wasn't real. But that's what happens when you only know the version of love that burns you. You forget that love can be warm, too. That it can be soft. Safe. Real.

I look over at Millie now. She's lying across the couch, one leg bent beneath her, the other stretched out over my lap.

She's wearing a sweater and her hair is still damp from the shower, making the bright red a dark Auburn.

She's scrolling through her phone, casually, lazily, her fingers grazing my thigh every time she shifts.

And when she looks up at me, her eyes go soft the way they always do when it's just us.

Like I'm something she's grateful for. Like I matter.

Love is the way her voice softens when she's with me.

It's the way she never looks away when things get hard.

It's the way she makes space in her life for me—real space—and lets me do the same for her.

It's in our routines now: the shared toothbrush cup, the cereal she keeps just for me, the photos I take of her when she's not looking, and the ones she takes of me when I'm lost in my work.

I spent so long thinking love meant having to earn my worth. That I had to prove I was good enough, pretty enough, useful enough. But with Millie, I never have to prove anything. I just have to be me. And she loves me like that. Exactly like that.

She loves me when my hair's a mess and my socks don't match.

She loves me when I wake up grumpy and cling to her like a blanket because the bed feels too cold without her body next to mine.

She loves me when I ramble about light theory and aperture at breakfast, eyes wide with wonder over something she doesn't fully understand but listens to anyway, because it matters to me.

She doesn't love a curated version of me. She loves the real thing. The whole thing. The messy and the quiet and the scared and the soft.

This morning, she made coffee before I even rolled out of bed.

I came out to find her standing at the counter, barefoot, hair still damp from her shower, wearing that old flannel shirt I stole from her once and never gave back.

The sunlight was pouring in through the windows, golden and warm, catching in her hair and painting her in soft morning light.

She looked like something out of a dream. My dream.

"Morning, gorgeous," she said, handing me a mug with both hands like she always does, like the heat might hurt me.

I took it, our fingers brushing, and I swear something still flips in my stomach every time she touches me. Like I'm still falling. Like I might always be falling.

"Thanks," I murmured, and leaned into her, resting my cheek on her shoulder. I felt her smile against my hair, felt her hand move up and down my back in slow, sleepy strokes.

No rush. No plans. Just us.

We curled up on the couch together after breakfast, legs tangled under a shared blanket, the quiet hum of the city outside our windows, the occasional soft laugh between us when she showed me ridiculous memes or kissed the tip of my nose just to see me blush.

She does that—kisses me just because. Not for show.

Not for the cameras. Just because she can.

Her head is on my shoulder now, her hand tucked under the hem of my shirt, fingers splayed across my ribs like she wants to memorize every inch of me.

We haven't spoken in a few minutes, but the silence is full.

Safe. Familiar. I look down at her, and her lashes are low, her mouth soft, and I swear I can feel her heart beating against mine.

I run my fingers through her hair, slow and gentle, and she hums like a cat curled in sunlight.

"This is my favorite part of the day," I whisper.

She lifts her head just enough to meet my eyes, her smile lazy and intimate. "Lying on top of me and stealing all the body heat?"

I laugh, quiet. "No. This part. Right now. When it's just us. Nothing else."

Her smile falters a little—not in a bad way. In that way she gets when her heart is full. She lifts her hand to my face and traces my cheek with her thumb.

"I love you," she says.

And she doesn't say it like it's something she's offering. She says it like it's a truth she carries. Like it's air. Like it's fact.

I press my forehead to hers. "I love you too."

Love is this.

It's the quiet moments. The soft touches. The shared silence and the gentle laughter and the promise that I don't have to be anything but myself.

It's the way she sees me.

The way I finally see myself.

"Harps," Her voice is soft, warm, as she brushes her fingertips through my hair. "I was thinking we could fly to Florida this weekend,"

My heart flips—still. Every time she touches me. Every time she speaks my name. I look at her, at those deep ocean eyes, and for a second, everything falls away. It's just us. The room fades, the world stops, and I'm lost in the blue of her gaze.

I know those eyes.

I know their every shade, their every shift.

They're green when she's mad, or when her pulse quickens, or when we're tangled together naked in the sheets.

They're blue most of the time, when it's peaceful, when we're just breathing.

But in bed? When she's on top of me, when we're wrapped up in each other's heat and rhythm, they're a deep forest green, like the calm of the ocean at dusk, and I can't stop getting lost in them.

"Baby," she says again, and her voice pulls me back to the present.

I blink, shaking my head to clear the thoughts. I smile, guilty, a little dazed. "Isn't your next game the finals?"

Her smile widens, proud. She knows how much this means to her, to her team, to me. "Yeah, so?" she says, her voice laced with that mischievous edge that always makes my stomach flip.

"You don't want to celebrate here?" I ask, cocking my head, suddenly thinking about our home, how much I love it, how much I love sharing it with her. It's not just the space—it's the space we've built together.

She laughs, a low, delighted sound, shaking her head as she shifts to sit up on the couch, pulling her knees to her chest. Her skin still warm from the morning light, her hair a messy halo around her face. "I love the confidence you have in us," she teases.

I roll my eyes, leaning back against the cushions, still holding her gaze. "Oh, please, Amelia. Even you know you're gonna win."

She leans in then, her face softening, eyes glimmering with affection as her hand finds its way to my cheek.

She traces her thumb across my skin, the touch light, tender.

"I love you so much," she whispers, and then seals it with a soft kiss.

"But yeah—we can celebrate there. We can take our family. "

Our family. The words echo in my head, and I freeze, feeling that familiar, deep sense of warmth blossom in my chest. Our family. It's more than I ever thought I'd have. More than I ever thought I'd be a part of.

"But there's nothing done yet," I pout, crossing my arms, the hint of a playful frown tugging at my lips. "We have so much to do. The rooms. The kitchen. The living room. We can't even fit..." I trail off, unsure how to express the sudden wave of overwhelm that hits me.

I don't even know how many Bennetts there are now, or how many will fit.

It feels like a lifetime's worth of laughter and chaos, and it's both terrifying and beautiful.

She laughs, quietly, and I hear the fondness in it. "Okay, this was supposed to be a surprise, but we suck at surprises." She shrugs, as though it's nothing. "My moms... they bought the house next door."

My heart stops for a beat. I sit up so fast that I nearly knock the coffee cup off the table, my jaw hanging open in disbelief. "Shut up."

She smiles at me, a soft, knowing smile. "I'm serious."

"No. Shut up, Amelia." I say again, my voice a little more urgent, like I can't quite wrap my mind around what she's telling me. "The one with the, I don't know, how many bedrooms? And bathrooms? And a pool—"

"Yeah, baby. That one." Her voice is calm, but there's a little crack of amusement in it as she watches me process the news. She reaches for me then, cupping my cheeks in her hands, the weight of them warm against my skin. "Why are you crying?" she asks softly, her voice tinged with worry.

I blink, and then I feel the wetness against my lashes. I hadn't even realized. But I'm crying. Tears, hot and unbidden, spill down my face. I wipe them away quickly, but she's already cupping my face, her thumb brushing my cheek, her touch gentle.

"Why? Why'd they do that?" I ask, my voice cracked, a little shaky.

She chuckles, low and soft, her forehead resting against mine, the sound of it full of affection. "Because who knows how many Bennetts there are now, and they wanted your house to be yours. Ours. We can still go with them, but we'll be next door."

I stare at her, still not quite believing what she's saying. The thought of it makes my heart ache in the best way. This is ours. This is real.

"You're lying," I whisper, my breath shaking.

"I'm not, baby." Her lips press gently against mine, reassuring me, grounding me.

I pull her closer, pressing my forehead to hers.

And in that moment, I feel the truth of it settle inside me like it's always been there.

A future, a life, with her. I kiss her softly, deeply, tasting the promise of everything we're building together.

The love, the house, the family. It's more than I ever thought I deserved, and yet it's exactly what I've always wanted.

She holds me tighter, like she's afraid to let me go, like we both need this closeness. And I understand. I need it, too. I need her. All of her. I need to build something with her. Something lasting. Something real.

And as I look into her eyes—those deep, blue eyes—I know I've found everything I've ever been searching for.

I blink at her, still trying to wrap my head around it. My heart swells, but there's something else—something raw and unexpected in my chest. A lump that won't go away. The idea of all of us together, so close. It makes everything feel so real. So permanent.

"Next door..." I murmur, as if saying it out loud makes it more real. A house for us. A home.

Her lips curl into a gentle, knowing smile. "Yeah. Next door. It's big enough for everyone, Harp. You won't have to choose. You don't have to keep worrying about them fitting in. Just us, enjoying our little beach house and them next door."

Her hand slides down to the back of my neck, her fingers pressing into the muscles there like she knows exactly where to touch to make everything settle, to make everything feel like it's falling into place.

She pulls me in just a little closer, and I rest my cheek against hers.

I don't even realize how tightly I've been holding my breath until she exhales softly, letting the tension leave her body, and I follow suit.

"I don't know what to say," I whisper, not really understanding why I'm on the edge of tears again, though this time, it's different. There's something about Millie that makes the world feel softer, less sharp. Like I can let myself feel everything without worrying it'll hurt too much.

"You don't have to say anything," she says, her voice steady but full of the kind of love that makes me melt. It's the kind of voice that wraps around me like a warm blanket, the kind of voice that makes me believe in everything again. "Just that... we're leaving to Florida this Monday?"

I laugh softly, the sound a little unsteady.

"Do you really want to celebrate your third cup renovating a house?

Do you know how hot it gets in Venice?" I raise an eyebrow, playfully, but there's a tinge of vulnerability in my tone that betrays me.

"It's like the sun is always trying to cook you alive. "

She grins, and the way her lips curl makes everything in me want to melt. I can't help but laugh, watching her. That smile. I swear, it's going to be the death of me. "I just want to be with you," she says, her voice warm, steady, and full of meaning. "I don't care about anything else."

And in that moment, I believe her completely.

Because that's the kind of love she gives me.

The kind that doesn't come with conditions.

No strings attached, no qualifications. Just pure, simple love.

I know she doesn't care about the cup, or the house, or the renovations.

It's all just noise. All she wants is me, and in return, I want her in every single way. More than I've ever known possible.

I guess we're going to Florida.

I hope you're there, Mom.

──────────

The air feels different the moment we step off the plane.

I'd almost forgotten what Florida heat feels like.

It's not like Vancouver's—sharp and chilly in the mornings, carrying the edge of sea wind.

Here, the warmth wraps around you like a second skin, thick and golden, sinking into your bones.

It smells like salt and sun and hibiscus.

Venice is quieter than I remembered, but maybe that's just me now. Maybe I'm quieter, too.

Millie's bouncing beside me like she hasn't just played through the most brutal post-season of her career.

Her third cup. Third. She has this glow about her—sweaty from the flight, curls wild from the humidity, denim shorts hanging low on her hips and a thin tank top that shows off her bronze shoulders.

Her eyes are that sea-glass blue today, bright and restless and alive— Yes, we brought clothes for summer now, don't worry.

She's talking a mile a minute, gesturing with her hands like she's trying to paint the air with all the thoughts in her head. And all I can do is stare at her.

She's got the cup with her—again. It flew with us. It's in a ridiculous case she refuses to let out of her sight. And when she caught me smiling at it earlier, she said, "What? She deserves a beach day."

We're in Venice now. The ocean is just a few blocks away, and I can already hear the distant hush of waves beyond the palm trees. The house is a few minutes from the airport, but everything feels slowed down here. Time moves like it's been softened by salt air and sun-soaked porches.

Millie slings her arm around my shoulders as we walk toward the rental car, tugging me close so our bodies are pressed together. "You okay?" she asks, even though she's beaming, even though her energy is electric and I know she could talk for hours about the game.

"I'm good," I whisper, because I am. Good and overwhelmed. Happy and full.

Watching her win that cup—watching her fall to her knees on the ice, teammates piling on top of her like a wave—I'd never felt pride like that before.

Not like this. She'd looked up into the crowd and found me immediately, like she always does, and when they let people onto the ice, she didn't even hesitate.

She ran. Full speed. Through the chaos. Through the cameras. Straight to me.

"I told you I'd do it for you," she'd said, arms tight around me, her breath still ragged from the third period. "For us."

Now she's humming beside me in the car, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting on my bare thigh, skin warm and familiar. We're driving with the windows down. Her curls are wild, whipping in the wind, and she's squinting against the sun, the smile on her face never fading.

"I missed this place," I say softly, turning my face toward the wind.

She glances at me, her fingers squeezing my thigh. "Me too."

We pull into the driveway a twenty minutes later, and I blink—because something's different. No—everything is.

For a second, I forget how to breathe.

The porch is freshly painted, a soft, creamy white with light blue accents that remind me of saltwater and sky.

The steps no longer creak or sag. The railing that used to wobble beneath my teenage hands is sturdy, clean, wrapped in climbing jasmine.

There are purple flowers blooming along the base of the new, straightened fence—my mom's favorite.

Petunias. The ones we used to plant together every spring, right before school let out.

They were always crooked, always patchy, but she loved them like they were perfect.

Now, they are perfect.

I'm frozen with the door halfway open, the sun slanting golden through the windshield, the hot Florida air pouring in. It's thick with the scent of ocean breeze and blooming citrus, and I swear I can hear the distant hush of waves just beyond the streets, curling somewhere past the palms.

Millie parks the car and unbuckles like she's about to jump out of her own skin.

"Millie?" My voice is quiet, hoarse with something I can't name yet.

"Hmm?" she asks, but she's smiling. She knows.

"What... what did you do?"

She bites her lip to keep from grinning too wide, rounds the car, opens my door like it's her job. Like she's done this every day of her life. "Amelia."

"You said we had to renovate," she says slowly. "You didn't say when."

The porch creaks beneath our steps—not with age, but something else now. Memory. Familiar, but no longer heavy. The door opens with a soft click, and the moment I step inside, my knees almost give out.

This was my mother's house. This was my house.

This was where I stood barefoot in the kitchen, eating mango slices while she danced to Motown.

This was where we fought about curfews and prom dresses.

Where I cried in the hallway the day after her funeral because the walls still smelled like her, and I didn't know how to let go.

And now? It feels... alive again.

The walls are painted a soft linen white, bright but not sterile, and the floor—the same hardwood we used to slide across in socks—has been sanded down and polished to a warm, golden glow.

It doesn't squeak like it used to, but the sound of our footsteps still echoes gently. Like it's welcoming us back.

There are photos everywhere. Photos I took.

Photos of Millie—laughing, frowning, sleeping on the couch with Lia curled with her.

There's one of me, tucked into the corner of a frame, curled up with a camera in my lap and a mug of tea in my hands, half-asleep in a sunbeam.

One I didn't take. One she must've taken when I wasn't looking.

Her jerseys are framed neatly in the hallway now, displayed with pride but not flash.

Just reverence. Memory. There's a new couch in the living room—huge and soft and made for movie marathons and rainy mornings and all the ways we love each other.

There's even a little tray by the front door filled with film rolls and batteries and tiny notes in my handwriting.

It smells like her. Vanilla and lemon and something warm I can never quite place. Something that means home.

I don't realize I'm crying until her arms are around me from behind, strong and steady. Her chin rests gently on my shoulder, her body molding to mine like we've always fit this way. My tears hit her forearm and she doesn't flinch, just holds me tighter.

"Welcome home, my love," she says quietly, lips brushing the edge of my ear.

I turn in her arms and she catches me without hesitation, like she's done it a thousand times.

Like she always will.

Her eyes are a soft, stormy blue.

Her hair's a little frizzy from the humidity, curling wildly around her cheeks.

I press my palm to her chest, right over her heartbeat, and she smiles.

"It doesn't feel like a place to cry anymore," I whisper, voice cracking again.

She lifts her hand to cup my cheek, wiping a tear away with her thumb. "It doesn't have to be. Or it does. You can do whatever you want. This is our place, we make the rules."

I look around again. The light streaming through the new windows is golden and warm. The ceiling fan hums gently overhead. Outside, the ocean is just a breath away.

And she's right. This isn't a place that holds only loss anymore.

It's a beginning.

I step back just enough to take her in—sun-kissed, wild-haired, wearing one of my old tank tops and a pair of cutoff shorts that should probably be illegal. She's barefoot, grinning, a little sweaty, and absolutely radiant. High on life. High on us.

"This is the most romantic thing anyone's ever done for me," I say.

"Even more than flying to Montreal just to bring you your camera?" she teases, brushing her nose against mine.

"Even more than that."

She grins. "Good. Because I've got, like, three more surprises waiting."

"Amelia Bennett." I say again, trying to sound stern, but my voice catches somewhere between disbelief and something so full of love it feels like a tidal wave rising quietly inside my chest.

She raises an eyebrow, smug. "You say my full name like it's gonna stop me."

"It should."

"It won't."

I laugh through the last of my tears, wiping my cheeks, then letting her take my hands. Her thumbs brush gently across my knuckles like she's grounding me—like she knows I'm still swimming in it all. The home. The renovation. The way everything smells like fresh paint and lemon oil and her.

I breathe her in again. Let it settle in my bones.

"You did all this without me noticing?" I ask, my voice soft now, in awe.

She shrugs, like it's no big deal. "You were busy. I had help. I made a thousand spreadsheets. You know how I get when I'm determined."

"But why?"

Millie smiles, and it's that smile—the one that always ruins me. The one that looks like sunrise and safety.

"Because you once told me this house didn't feel like home anymore.

And I've been waiting to prove to you that home isn't just walls and rooms and memories.

It's where you are loved, every day. It's where you wake up and feel safe.

It's where your heart gets to rest. So I figured. .. we build that. Here. Together."

She says it so simply, like it didn't just stitch a new thread through every broken part of me. I take a shaky breath, stepping closer again. "I love you."

Her hands land on my waist, warm and steady. "I love you too."

"I love you," I say again, because one time's not enough. It'll never be enough.

She leans in slowly, giving me time, giving me the choice, even now.

And I meet her halfway. The kiss is soft, steady, reverent.

The kind of kiss that tastes like everything we've been through to get here.

It's heat and honey and ocean air. Her fingers slip into my hair, my arms circle her shoulders, and when she lifts me just slightly off the ground like she can't help herself—I laugh into her mouth, joy spilling from me like sunlight through open windows.

Later, the sun begins to set, and we wander barefoot to the beach.

It's quiet out here. No one else around.

Just the hum of the waves, the golden-pink sky dipping low, and the gentle rustle of the breeze brushing through the sea oats.

Millie holds my hand like she always does—like it's natural, instinctive, second nature.

Her fingers laced with mine, thumb stroking gently.

We sit in the sand, shoulders pressed, knees touching.

She rests her head on mine. The ocean stretches endlessly in front of us, sparkling in the fading light.

And for the first time in a long, long time, the past doesn't haunt me.

It lives here, sure, but it doesn't hurt anymore.

It's part of the foundation now. Part of what made me strong enough to choose love again.

And I did.

I chose Millie.

She chose me right back.

I glance over at her, the way her lashes catch the last light of the day, the way her chest rises and falls with a kind of peace I never knew I'd get to witness in another person.

This is it.

This is what love is.

Not the loud, performative chaos I used to mistake for affection.

Not the shallow praise or shiny perfection. But the quiet kind. The slow-burning, unwavering, ordinary-magic kind.

Love is the smell of clean laundry on a humid day.

It's a fridge stocked with my favorite snacks.

It's Millie taping polaroids to the fridge like they're priceless art.

It's knowing exactly how she takes her coffee. It's her knowing when I've had a hard day before I say a word.

Love is this—Florida sand in my shoes, her shoulder against mine, a home that used to make me cry now filled with laughter and light.

Love is her.

It always has been.

She turns toward me and smiles, brushing a kiss to the top of my head.

"What?" I ask, teasing.

"Nothing," she murmurs, voice a little sleepy. "Just... I never thought anything could feel this good."

"Me either."

The tide creeps in, lapping at our toes. We don't move.

We stay there, just like that—skin warm from the sun, hands tangled, hearts full—as the stars begin to blink into the sky, one by one, like the universe is quietly celebrating with us.

And that's how it ends.

With a promise.

A home.

A love.

Us.

Forever.