Page 93 of Back to You
I heard the echo of my former self in his exhaustion. The endless hours. The sacrificed relationships. The belief that professional success could fill personal emptiness.
"Will," I said, watching through the window as Charlotte moved around the kitchen, her silhouette backlit by warm light. "Don't wait as long as I did to figure out what actually matters."
Silence on the line. Then, "Noted. Thanks, Miles. For everything."
"Get some sleep. The case will still be there tomorrow."
"So will the client's demands."
"Let them demand. You're allowed to have a life."
A soft laugh. "I'll try to remember that. Enjoy your evening."
The call ended, and I sat for a moment in the gathering dark, the phone warm in my palm. Inside, Charlotte was pouring hot water into mugs, her movements easy and familiar. This was my life now, quiet evenings on a porch swing, tea brewing in the kitchen, a woman who loved me waiting just through the door.
I pushed myself up from the swing and went inside, my trembling hands reaching for the mug she held out to me.
"Everything okay?" she asked.
"Everything's perfect," I said, and meant it.
She smiled, that shining smile I'd loved since I was seventeen, and leaned up to kiss me softly.
"Good," she murmured against my lips. "Because I was thinking..."
"Dangerous."
"Very." Her eyes sparkled with something that made my heart rate pick up. "I was thinking we should go back to the river this weekend. To our spot under the oak tree."
"Any particular reason?"
"Maybe." She traced a finger along my shoulder, her touch leaving warmth in its wake. "Or maybe I just want to kiss you in all our significant locations. Build up a collection."
"That could take a while. We have a lot of significant locations."
"Then we'd better get started."
I set down my tea, pulled her close, and kissed her properly, the kind of kiss that had nothing to do with comfort and everything to do with desire. She melted into me, her fingers curling into my shirt, and when we finally broke apart, we were both breathing harder.
"Or," I said, my voice rough, "we could start with the significant locations inside this house."
Her laugh was low and promising. "I like the way you think, Mr. Cameron."
"I learned from the best, Mrs. Cameron."
She took my hand, the trembling one, the imperfect one, and led me toward the stairs. And I followed, the way I would always follow her, into whatever came next.
Our life wasn't a fairy tale. It was harder than that, and messier, and more real. There would be more difficult days ahead, medications that didn't work, symptoms that progressed, battles I would sometimes lose.
But there would also be this: sauce-splattered kitchens and porch swing sunsets and a woman who chose me every single day despite knowing exactly what she was choosing.
That was enough. That was everything.
That was our life.
