Page 112 of Seven Minutes
Finally, he reached across the console, threading his fingers through mine.
“It looks good,” he murmured, staring through the passenger window.
“It does,” I agreed. “Is this still a dream you want?” I asked, thumb brushing his knuckles. “Because we can put our placeup for sale tomorrow. Start shopping for a charming little dump like this one.”
Eli snorted, startled into a laugh. “That ‘charming little dump’ looks like it has a gardener and a mortgage I’m not emotionally prepared for.”
“Semantics,” I said, tightening my grip on his hand. “I’m serious. If you want it… if you still want that version of life—porch swing, peeling paint, creaky floors—I’ll find it. We’ll build it.”
He turned to me fully, eyes soft in a way that never failed to wreck me.
“No,” he said quietly.
I blinked. “No?”
“Adrian,” he said, squeezing my fingers, “it was never really about the house.”
I eased the car to the curb because whatever he was about to say deserved more than my divided attention.
He shifted closer, free hand sliding up the back of my neck. His voice was soft. “It was us,” he said. “We had cracks in our foundation. Our paint was peeling, and we needed a new roof to shelter us from storms.”
My heart squeezed.
“But…” He leaned in, dropping teasing little kisses along my mouth—one word, one kiss, one breath at a time. “We,” kiss, “fixed,” kiss, “us.”
I tasted his smile against my lips.
“We repaired our home. And now?” Another quick kiss. “It’s not so bad. Even if the kitchen is a bit too modern for my taste.”
A laugh burst out of me—a helpless, stupidlyhappy laugh.
“You hate our kitchen?” I asked, feigning shock.
He kissed me once more, slow and lingering. “I love our home. I love us.”
And somehow, right then, parked on Decatur Street in front of someone else’s dream, I finally believed him.
Chapter 40
The Eighth Minute
ADRIAN
Afew months later, life settled into something easy—comforting in a way that had once felt impossible. The kitchen became the heart of the house: the place where Sunday pancakes happened, where late-night talks stretched past midnight, where we slow-danced or kissed more than we cooked.
One ordinary Thursday evening, I pushed open the front door, exhausted from a double shift, my scrubs wrinkled and my hair a lost cause. I dropped my bag by the wall and inhaled the mouthwatering aroma of garlic and tomatoes.
I stepped into the kitchen and found Eli stirring a pot on the stove, barefoot, humming to himself. The sight hit me so hard in the chest I had to stop for a second.
“Hey, handsome,” he said, reaching for me before I could even catch my breath from the shift. “You’re home early.”
He didn’t look surprised, just pleased. My showingup on time had become a reliable part of our life instead of a rare victory.
“I am.” I moved behind him, sliding my arms around his waist, resting my chin on his shoulder. “Traffic loved me today.”
He let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “Miracles do happen.”
I kissed a spot just under his ear, his favorite and mine. “Had my check-up today.”
