Page 50

HARPER

The camera is warm in my hands, its strap tucked snugly between my collarbone and shoulder, like it belongs there.

Like it always has. I've been trying to get the perfect shot of the purple-pink sky melting into the endless blue of the ocean, but I've given up.

Not even the best lens in the world could capture what I'm seeing. What I'm feeling.

Because what I'm feeling is peace. And the kind of joy that doesn't need to be loud to be real.

There are blankets spread across the floorboards, towels slung over the railing, and kids running barefoot through the sand with popsicles dripping down their wrists and bright, messy smiles.

Fizzy and Nico—now twelve and almost as tall as Millie—are attempting to build a sandcastle that's turning more into a moat with every wave, arguing over who gets to be in charge.

I've stopped trying to keep my lens clean.

Everything is sticky, and sandy, and loud, and a little bit wild.

But it's the best kind of chaos.

The Bennetts have officially taken over Florida. And somehow, this house—the one I used to think was too full of ghosts to ever be mine again—has learned how to hold laughter. To hold life.

Inside, I hear Camille humming softly as she carries her and Aurora's newborn—just one month old—up the stairs for his afternoon nap.

Ciro is wrapped in one of the soft blue blankets I made for him last winter.

He is perfect. Round cheeks, wisps of dark hair, tiny fists always curled.

Camille keeps the nursery cool, tucked away from the Florida heat.

She always looks peaceful holding her son like that, her love quiet and sure.

Millie's moms are out on the deck, Mia rests between Luna's legs, her back against her chest. They're half-drunk on homemade lemonade and debating whether the new garden they planted last spring is too symmetrical.

Willow's manning a game of cards with two of Millie's cousins and somehow winning every hand.

Aurora and Summer are sitting with their feet in the kiddie pool, arguing about sunscreen reapplication while stealing bites from the fruit tray they said was "for the kids.

" There's a rhythm to this now—a comfortable, lived-in chaos that doesn't just feel like vacation.

It feels like home.

And my fiancee—, Millie is in her element.

She's standing barefoot in front of the grill with Lia balanced easily on her hip and a spatula in her other hand, flipping corn and talking shit like she was born to do both at once.

Her skin is sun-kissed and golden, her legs dusted in sand, freckles multiplying across her shoulders like stars.

She's wearing an old tank top of mine and those cutoff shorts that should honestly be illegal, plus a backwards cap that barely keeps her wild red hair in place.

The Florida sun has turned it even brighter—it's practically glowing now, fiery and fierce.

Strands curl around her cheeks, stuck with sweat and humidity.

She's glowing. She's radiant. She's home.

Every so often, she looks up just to find me. Like she's tethered to me, even across the chaos. And when our eyes meet, she smiles like I'm the only thing that matters.

That hasn't changed.

Not through sleepless nights or plane rides or full arenas. Millie still plays. Still wins. Still carries the weight of the world on her shoulders and somehow makes it look effortless. And still, every time, she finds me in the crowd like I'm her center. Her lighthouse.

I snap a shot of Millie laughing, her head thrown back, sun hitting the side of her face.

And another of the way she balances her niece on her hip while turning the food, totally at ease.

Then a few of the beach, the way the sand looks like sugar, the way the waves roll so gently tonight, like they know it's sacred.

The house doesn't feel like a place to cry anymore.

It feels alive. There's driftwood by the stairs, smooth and sun-bleached, probably dragged in by one of the kids.

There's a new welcome mat with our initials stitched into it—H&M—and Millie said she picked it out because it "looked like us.

" and because that's where she bought our clothes the first time we were here together.

The walls are covered in frames now, some filled with my photos, some with hers.

There's a handprint in the backyard from the twins.

A heart-shaped rock Millie found on the beach and placed beside the sink.

A post-it note on the fridge that just says you looked really hot this morning, ill be back in ten minutes in her handwriting.

Everything here holds us.

I wander inside with the excuse of grabbing more lemonade, but really—I just want a second alone.

A breath. A beat. I pad through the kitchen, my bare feet sticky from the sand and damp from the deck, warm tiles grounding me with every step.

The smell of grilled corn and sunscreen lingers in the air, carried in with the breeze that drifts through the open sliding door.

I stop there for a moment, leaning a hand on the frame, letting the salty air curl through my hair.

My eyes sweep across the backyard, the ocean just beyond the dune, kids shrieking over who gets to bury who in the sand, towels fluttering like flags from the railing.

Millie's standing in the sun, laughing at something Fizzy said, her whole body curved around it like it's the only sound that matters.

It still hits me sometimes. That this is mine. That I get to keep it.

This house. This life. Her.

My gaze falls to the countertop beside me—there's a picture of me and my mom, framed in sea glass we collected the summer before she got sick.

We're both squinting into the sun, arms around each other, hair wind-blown and tangled.

Beside it is a more recent photo, printed on thick matte paper and tucked into a wooden frame: me and Millie, both in sunglasses, her hand in my hair, my camera in hers.

I look happy in both pictures. I am happy in both of them.

But in the second one, there's something quieter about it. More rooted. Like I know I'm safe now.

I press my fingers gently to the edge of the frame, then lean forward until my forehead rests lightly against the cabinet door, just needing the grounding.

Two years ago, I wasn't sure I'd ever step into this house again.

Not without drowning in the weight of everything I'd lost. Not without breaking open.

But now? Now it smells like lemon and vanilla and sea salt and grilled peaches. It smells like happiness.

I feel her before I hear her. The shift in the air.

The soft pad of her footsteps. Then, her hand—cool from a drink, damp from the glass—settles low on my back.

Just above the hem of my tank top. She doesn't speak right away.

Doesn't rush me. Just stands there behind me, her chest brushing my shoulder, her breath grazing my cheek.

Her presence is a quiet hum, steady, anchoring.

Intimate in a way that makes my whole body ache in that slow, familiar way it always does around her.

"You okay?" she murmurs, voice low and careful.

I nod, but it takes me a second to speak. "Yeah," I say, voice soft. "I just needed a second. It still sneaks up on me."

Her hand strokes up, slow and soothing, dragging the fabric of my shirt with it, until her fingers are brushing the back of my neck. She presses a kiss there, just behind my ear, gentle and unhurried. "Good sneaking up, or bad?"

"Good," I whisper. "Really good. Just... a lot."

She exhales against my skin, and her arms slide around my waist, her body molding against mine like she's done it a hundred times. A thousand. She probably has. "I still catch myself looking around like—wait, we live here. This is real."

I smile, letting my head fall back onto her shoulder. "This is real."

We don't actually live here. We have our own house in Vancouver— near her moms', in a quiet neighbourhood with nice neighbors and kids running around everywhere, but we still come here. Every chance we get.

She rocks us slightly, just a few inches side to side, like we're slow dancing to nothing.

Like she wants to make sure I stay in the moment.

Her lips find my jaw, trailing a little lower, a little slower, until I feel her breath along my throat.

She looks like the heart of summer—untamed and vivid and mine.

She presses her forehead to mine. "Can I tell you something stupid?"

"Always."

She grins. "Every time I step into this kitchen and see you—barefoot, sunlit, camera strap across your chest—I kind of want to propose again."

Heat rushes to my face. My mouth opens and closes, my heart doing that stupid hiccup thing it only does with her. "You already proposed."

She shrugs with zero shame, her face the picture of cocky amusement. "Yeah, but I could do it better now."

"You could not," I say, narrowing my eyes.

Her grin grows into something dangerous. "I could try."

And there's that spark—always there, even after everything, after years of mornings and late nights and playoffs and road trips and grocery lists. She still looks at me like she's dying to flirt with me. Like I'm the most fun thing she's ever discovered and she's never getting bored.

She leans in again, but slower this time, teasing.

Her nose brushes mine first, and I can feel her smile against my mouth before she kisses me.

It's soft, warm, a little hungry. A little home.

Her fingers slide into my hair like they belong there, curling and tugging gently, and my hands find her hips without thinking, tugging at the waistband of her shorts until our bodies are pressed together, heat to heat.

It's stupid how easy it still is. How natural. The pull between us hasn't dimmed, not even a little. If anything, it's grown steadier—less firework, more wildfire. Slow-burning, consuming, rooted deep. Her body against mine feels like a promise I get to keep waking up to.

When she finally pulls back, her lips linger on mine like she's reluctant to leave the moment, and I can't help the smile that curls at the corners of my mouth. I keep my hands on her, one at her waist, the other sliding up her back beneath the loose fabric of her tank top.

"Better, huh?" I murmur, pretending to consider. "That wasn't bad. Not exactly proposal-worthy, but decent."

She gasps dramatically and presses a hand to her chest. "Decent? Decent? You wound me."

I laugh, leaning into her, stealing another kiss that's quick and smug and a little cocky. "You'll survive."

She hums, letting her hand drift lazily from my hair to my collarbone, where her thumb rubs a slow circle over the skin.

"You know, I'm tempted to do it again just to prove a point.

Really go for it this time. Rent a hot air balloon.

Hire a dolphin to deliver the ring. Maybe get a skywriter. Or the next finals."

"Millie."

"What?" she says, all innocence. "You'd say yes."

I roll my eyes, but it's all affection. "You're lucky you're cute."

She leans in close, her breath warm on my ear. "I'm lucky you love me."

That shuts me up for a second. Not because it's a surprise, but because it's still so simple for her. So easy. Like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Because it is. Of course I love her. In every way a person can love another. Loud and soft. Steady and wild. It's just... her.

My throat tightens, and I have to blink a few times, swallowing the lump in my chest that shows up more often now, but in a different way. Not from grief. From gratitude.

"I do," I say, and the words feel heavy and real between us. "I love you."

She grins, but there's something gentle in her eyes. Something that tells me she hears it every time. That she never takes it for granted.

"Yeah?" she says, voice a little raspier now, a little more careful. "Even when I steal your hoodies and wear them in the middle of July?"

"Especially then."

"Even when I finish your cereal and put the empty box back in the cabinet?"

I fake a grimace. "Okay, that one's still under review."

She laughs, that bright, open sound I swear I could bottle up and live off of. Then she presses a series of kisses to my cheek, my jaw, the curve of my neck. "Noted."

We stand there in our little pocket of quiet for a moment, wrapped in each other's gravity.

Her fingers trace slow patterns at my waist, mine tucked just under the hem of her shirt, brushing the warm skin of her back.

It's domestic and intimate and so achingly familiar it makes something in my chest tighten.

Not in a painful way—just full. Like I can't quite hold everything I feel for her at once.

And then, just as she leans in again, soft and teasing, a baby's cry echoes from upstairs.

It cuts through the hum of the evening—sharp and small, the unmistakable sound of one-month-old lungs reminding the world he exists. Millie freezes mid-kiss and pulls back with a soft, dramatic groan. "I'd bet you ten bucks that's Ciro."

I grin. "Cheater. You'd win."

We move in sync without needing to say a word, jogging lightly through the house, past half-empty cups of lemonade and a wet towel someone left on the stairs.

Upstairs, Camille's already leaning over the crib, rocking gently, trying to soothe him.

Aurora's rubbing her own eyes like she only just sat down for a second.

"Hey," Millie says softly, nudging open the door. "Tag team?"

Camille glances back, exhausted and grateful. "Please."

Millie moves in like she's done this a thousand times, scooping the baby into her arms with practiced ease. "Hey, baby boy," she coos, her voice softer than I've ever heard it. "You giving your moms a hard time?"

Ciro lets out a soft hiccup and then nuzzles closer into the crook of Millie's shoulder.

I stay back a few feet, watching the scene unfold—Aurora sighing as Camille wraps an arm around her, Millie swaying gently on her feet with this tiny, brand-new person in her arms. The room smells like baby lotion and warmth and everything fresh.

My chest tightens again, but this time there's no grief in it. Just this quiet ache. A yearning I don't quite know how to name.

Millie glances at me over Ciro's soft little head and gives me a small smile. She knows me well enough to catch the shift in my face without me saying anything.

I lean against the doorway, and the words come out before I can second-guess them.

"You know," I say slowly, quietly, "we've got two empty rooms back home."

Millie stills, just a little. Her eyes lift to mine again, steady, searching.

"Yeah?" she says, voice light, but not teasing.

"Yeah." My throat goes a little tight. "I think about it sometimes. How we could fill them. What that might look like."

She's still holding Ciro close, but something in her body shifts toward me. Opens. She steps closer, baby in her arms, and her free hand reaches for mine.

"You'd want that?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

I nod. "With you, I want everything."

Millie doesn't speak right away. She just looks at me—really looks—and I see it there: the emotion rising behind her eyes, the way her chin tips up just a little to keep it steady.

"We'd be good at it," she says after a beat. "You'd be... Harper, you'd be the kind of mom a kid writes essays about in school."

I laugh through the wetness building behind my eyes. "And you'd be the cool one with the ridiculous hockey stories and the protective one,"

She grins, even as her eyes go glassy. "Damn right."

Ciro lets out a soft sigh and dozes off again, his tiny fingers curled in the collar of Millie's shirt. Millie holds him just a little closer, then leans forward and presses a kiss to my forehead, letting it linger there like she's grounding both of us.

"We can talk about it when we get home," she murmurs. "Start small. Start real."

"Okay," I say, already picturing it. "Okay."

We stand there for another minute, listening to the soft hush of the baby's breathing, the sounds of family drifting up from the yard. Eventually, Camille comes to take Ciro back to the crib, whispering thank you as Millie passes him over.

We head back downstairs hand in hand, slower this time. The sun's dipped lower now, casting everything in dusky gold. The twins are lighting sparklers. Someone's playing music on a bluetooth speaker, something lazy and nostalgic. The air smells like salt and sugar and fresh corn.

I look at Millie, and she looks at me, and I swear—time stops. Or maybe it folds in on itself.

Because in her eyes, I can see every version of us.

Every fake kiss that meant more than it should have, every real one that knocked the wind out of me.

Every messy middle. Every sacred after.

I see the first time she knocked on my door.

The night she stayed with me while I broke down.

The mornings we learned how to make coffee for each other without asking.

I see Vancouver winters and Florida heatwaves, tangled limbs and sleepy "I love yous" muttered into bare skin.

I see the girl I was when I thought love was a lie—and the woman I am now, because she made me believe again.

She steps closer, and her fingers find mine. Warm. Familiar. She doesn't have to say a word for me to feel it. That we made it. That this—this life, this family, this love—was worth everything we went through to get here.

Her thumb brushes over my knuckles, slow and grounding, like she's reminding me that I'm still here.

That I'm not dreaming. Like she's making sure I feel it—every inch of this life we built, one choice at a time.

I lean in, closing my eyes for a second.

She smells like salt and sunscreen and the coconut lotion she always uses, and underneath all that, just..

. her. The safest place I've ever known.

"I still think about it sometimes," I whisper, my voice catching at the edges. "The first night you stayed."

Her grip on my hand tightens. "Yeah?"

I nod slowly, eyes open again. The sun's gone behind the trees now, but everything's still bathed in gold, like it doesn't want to let go of the day. "You said you'd stay until I told you to leave."

Millie touches my cheek, her hand warm, thumb brushing softly under my eye like she's memorizing me all over again. "You never did."

"I never will."

Her breath catches on a laugh, but her eyes are glassy.

She doesn't say anything for a second, just presses her forehead to mine, and I swear, I can feel every beat of her heart in the silence.

I think about how far we've come—from fake dating and messy feelings to morning coffees and joint grocery lists, to renovations and weekend hockey games and every quiet second in between.

The music changes on the speaker behind us, something soft and dreamy now. Millie lifts her head and gives me this look—this look like I'm the only thing she's ever wanted. "Dance with me?"

I don't answer with words. I just slide my arms around her waist, press myself into her, and sway.

Her hands find my hips, then my back, her thumbs tracing the line of skin just above my waistband.

We move slow, barefoot on the deck, the wooden planks warm from the day's sun.

I rest my head on her shoulder and let the world fall away, until all I can feel is her—the curve of her smile against my hair, the sound of her humming along, the way she still pulls me in like she can't help it.

We dance like that for a while, wrapped in light and music and everything unspoken between us. Until laughter rises again from inside the house, and the screen door creaks open.

It's Aurora, cradling baby Ciro against her chest, her voice gentle but tired. "He just needed a minute," she says softly, rocking the newborn as she walks past us toward the nursery again. Her silhouette disappears through the hall, and the door clicks shut behind her.

Millie watches, her arms still looped around me. I feel her shift slightly, feel the quiet settle between us like a soft blanket. "He's so small," she murmurs. "Can't believe Lia was ever that little."

"Time's weird," I say, and it comes out quieter than I meant it to.

My eyes linger on the hallway, on the memory of a life that started just a month ago, and the ones still being built.

I don't know why my chest gets tight then.

Maybe it's the stillness after a long, loud day.

Maybe it's the moonlight falling through the windows, the laughter floating from the kitchen, the kids piling onto couches sticky with sunscreen and sugar.

Maybe it's Millie's hands on my waist, her thumbs rubbing soft circles into my shirt, like she knows I need her to keep me tethered.

"Mills?" I ask, my voice almost swallowed by the music still playing through the speakers.

"Mhh?" she hums back, nose brushing my temple.

I lean into her like I always do. Like my body knows exactly where to go. I let my fingers curl into the fabric at the back of her neck, the edge of her cap. "Are you happy?"

She doesn't answer at first. Doesn't joke, doesn't deflect.

Just lets the question hang between us like something sacred.

I can feel her heartbeat through her chest, the subtle hitch in her breath.

Then slowly, she tilts her head so we're eye to eye.

Her brows draw together the smallest bit—not in worry, but in wonder.

Like she's surprised I still ask. Like she can't believe I don't already know.

Her hand slides from my waist to my face, thumb grazing the curve of my jaw.

"I've never been happier, Harps," she says, and her voice is rough around the edges.

Honest. "I am happy, how could I not when I have you next to me?

Like I keep waiting for someone to tell me this was all a dream and I'll wake up back in that empty apartment with bad takeout and worse coping mechanisms."

A soft laugh breaks from my chest, but it melts into something quieter when she leans in and presses a kiss to my cheek, then another to my temple, then one just below my ear.

"You're it, Harper," she murmurs. "You've always been it."

I don't even try to keep the tears from blurring my eyes. I just step closer and wrap my arms around her neck, holding her like I don't want to let go. Because I don't. Not tonight. Not ever.

"Are you happy?" she whispers back, her breath warm against the side of my face.

I nod— there's no hesitation in it, but it takes a second for the words to catch up to my mouth. "Yeah," I breathe. "I'm so happy,"

It cracks something open in me. Not pain—not anymore—but something tender and deep and soft. Like joy that took the long way home. Like light finding its way into places I thought would stay dark forever.

It's been years since I lost my mom. The ache doesn't hit as sharp now, not like it used to, but sometimes I still catch myself turning to tell her something.

I still dream about her voice. About the way she brushed my hair behind my ear.

About the way she'd look at me like I was the best thing that had ever happened to her, even on my worst days.

For a long time, I didn't think I'd get to be this person.

Not after she died. And then, Millie sat next to me on the couch while I cried and didn't say anything stupid.

She just stayed. And kept staying. Even when I gave her a thousand reasons to leave.

Now her arms are around me like they belong there.

Her cheek is pressed to the top of my head and her fingers trace slow, absentminded shapes into my back.

It's muscle memory by now. Comfort woven into instinct. Love that breathes.

"You saved me," I whisper.

Millie's body stills, just for a second. Then her arms tighten around me. "You saved yourself," she murmurs. "I was just there everytime you fell, but you were the one that kept standing up ."

I laugh, and it sounds like relief. "You're so annoying when you're wise."

She pulls back just enough to see me, her grin soft but smug. "Yeah, but you love it."

"I do," I say, and the words don't wobble like they used to. They're strong. Rooted. True. "I love you so much it makes me feel ridiculous sometimes."

Millie leans in and kisses me like that's the only answer she needs.

Like everything else can wait. Her lips move slow over mine, unrushed, steady.

It's not just a kiss—it's every night she's held me while I fell apart, every morning she's made me laugh before I even opened my eyes, every version of us we've been and grown into.

It's every tiny, invisible thread that holds us together, stronger than anything else I've ever known.

When she pulls back, her eyes shine in the low light. "You know," she says, brushing her thumb along my cheekbone, "sometimes I look at you and I still can't believe you chose me."

I smile, tears slipping warm down my cheeks, but I don't look away. "I didn't just choose you, Millie. I found you. And when I did... everything made sense."

Her breath catches, just barely. Then she's kissing me again, deeper now, like she's trying to memorize the taste of my happiness. And maybe she is. Maybe I am too.

Outside, the world keeps moving. Waves lap the shore. Someone laughs in the kitchen. A door creaks open down the hall. But here, in this quiet little corner of the house, it's just us. Me and Millie. Safe. Whole. In love.

And for the first time in years, I'm not waiting for something bad to come along and take it all away. I'm just here. Breathing it in. Letting myself feel it.

Because love isn't a lie.

It's this.

It's her.

It always has been.