37. Maren

Locke shuffles out the back sliding door.

His gaze shifts from me to the rising sun, just a fuzzy slice of orange over the water. The sky is otherwise a deep dark blue.

I'm bundled up under my favorite blanket on the porch swing bed with my legs tucked up to my chest.

Locke, in his black boxer briefs, climbs in next to me, rearranges the blanket around both of us, and forces my legs down so he can nuzzle his head in my lap. He stretches out his long body, pressing against the rail with his feet.

"Why are you up?" I whisper, braiding my fingers through his disheveled hair. "I thought you'd sleep longer than"—I tap my phone on the armrest—"ten hours."

He squeezes an arm around my legs and smiles lazily. "You weren't in bed. I can sense when you're not sleeping next to me."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay." He purses his lips. "I thought for a second you went back to your house."

"I don't live with you, silly," I tease.

He hums in protest. "We'll see about that." Then Locke reaches up and brushes the tip of his finger along the underside of my jaw. "I wonder how long you can hold out. "

"We'll see, won't we," I play back, nipping at his finger.

"What're you thinking about?"

"Everything," I chuckle. "Did you sleep okay?"

He nods his face back into my lap. "Yeah," he says. "I feel good. You know, it's always kind of weird, this feeling after she checks in."

I take a sip from my coffee mug, continuing to scratch his scalp with my nails, to give Locke time to elaborate. Less gets you more with him—I think it always will.

"Watching her fill out the paperwork and be eager to stay. Unpacking her things because she knows she'll be there for a while. Actively listening like she's invested in what they have to say. When we walked out, my brain immediately quieted. I know exactly where she is. That she's safe. I don't think I even realize how much anxiety I have about her until I get that relief, experience the shift. But you being in my life has made such a difference, Maren. I've never been able to open up to someone like this. I've never really wanted to before. My life forked, and I wouldn't go back and take the other road for anything. Because I can't not talk to you anymore."

I plant a kiss into his forehead. "You can tell me anything. Everything. And I'll never change my mind about you. I know you now, Locke, and that blows my mind every single day." I laugh. "I can't believe I asked a stranger to help me not give a shit, and I ended up failing miserably at that, because I care about you the most."

"I failed miserably too," he says playfully, pinching my hip. "It was my job to teach you not to give a shit, and talk less, and not have my photograph taken. And now look at me—us. I think we both rubbed off on each other and found the perfect balance."

"Who's the better half?" I pinch him back harder.

"You," he laughs. "And you don't even have to pinch me. It's always you."

It's always me, I repeat in my head . Always me and him. All-consumed .

"You know," I say, "when we were driving to that very first dinner in San Diego, and all throughout dinner for that matter, all I could think about was what it would be like to be liked or even loved by you."

He picks his head up. "Is it everything you imagined?" he jokes.

"It's better," I insist. "Different too."

Locke smirks. His eyebrow ticks up. "Different how?"

"Maybe I mean I'm different," I muse out loud, chewing on my lip. "I did text my mom a little while ago and tell her I'm not cutting my hair because I like it long and I'm a twenty-nine-year-old woman."

"You're such a badass," Locke teases.

"Right," I grin. "But you are just like I thought—I feel so incredibly special when you look at me, when you smile, when you hold my hand or tell me you love me. I experience the intensity. But I used to think I didn't deserve it, and that's bullshit."

"Definitely bullshit," he agrees, snuggling deeper into my lap. "I'm in love with you. I love you. I love saying that now."

"I love you ."

I take a deep breath. Then listen to a few birds chirp. Drink my coffee. The silence welcomes both of us for a while before Locke yawns.

"What now?" I ask.

"Shut out the shit you shouldn't care about. Care the hell out of the things you should." Locke shrugs. "Live."

"Live," I repeat. "Happy."

"Happy," he says sleepily, closing his eyes. "Because you deserve it. You deserve everything, Maren. This is the beginning."

None of the other things matter because we're happy for now. I'm happy with myself, and there's no guarantees, so all I can do is keep going; living.

And yeah, sometimes I'm just not going to give a shit.