Chapter Thirty-Four

Zoe

"I think I just met my father-in-law."

The voice has a direct line to my heart, pulling it from the ledge.

I turn from the window from where I haven't moved since William Westwood left. Hugged by my arms and the steady beep of the monitor, I'd traced the angles from which sunlight poured through the buildings as the merciless clock ticked.

"Oh," I say to my boyfriend. "Will you introduce me? To your spouse, too."

"Ah-hah."

With a brush of his thumb, the camera of his phone looks down at me—showing me myself.

"Ah-hah," I mimic.

Looking down at me, Miles returns his phone to his pocket and sobers up. "Your father is here."

A nod. That's all I manage.

With one glance into my eyes, he reads the turmoil in my thoughts.

"Come here." He intertwines our hands and pulls us to the chair my father vacated, positioning me on his lap. "Wanna talk about it?"

"Not yet." My arms find their place around him. "Tell me about your hand."

Finally, he does.

As my gaze rests on my Grandpa, I lean my head on Miles's shoulder and listen as he relays his long day, arm fastened around my waist.

Even though my blood heats until my cheeks could burn through his clothes, I listen without interruption.

And Miles tells me.

He tells me about Charlie fucking Cox. He tells me about Lucy, and my next breath comes lighter until he tells me about their connection, and his plans to deal with them. My head is already spinning with plans of my own, but I don't give them a voice.

I want to ask about the end of this season, but he tells me it doesn't matter much, since his injury won't let him play another game this year, anyway. I know it matters to him that his integrity isn't doubted, that the fans never question his professionalism and his commitment to the team.

We don't leave until visiting hours are up and the nurse kicks us out, not before they promise that they'll contact us—Miles, since my phone is still out of service—as soon as anything changes.

But we're not even out of the elevator—because we're too lazy to use the stairs—when his ringtone calls us back upstairs.

As soon as we enter the wing, my vision blurs, seeing doctors and nurses leave the room with hurried steps. Miles's hand around mine is the only tether that keeps me from disintegrating. He doesn't mind that it's sweaty when he squeezes it, over and over, to pace my steps when they stumble.

He takes the lead and asks the nurse.

"He's awake," she starts, but she doesn't sound happy. "He's not very coherent, asking about bees."

I laugh through tears. Once they found the freedom in falling, they refuse to stop. So, I laugh as I cry and I cry as I laugh.

"Can I see him?"

I'm not sure her answer matters—or that I'd comply if she had said no—and I don't find out because she nods, hands me a mask, and I'm gone.

"Damn, old man." It's Miles who speaks first as I fight to find my voice. "You look like you just raised from the dead."

Grandpa grunts. His pale face looks paler, translucent under the blinding lights over his head—but in his veins, his blood still runs red. All the wrinkles that hold so many stories, so much history, look deeper, like they're engraved into stone.

"Little bee." His hand lifts the littlest bit, reaching for mine. I almost leap to grab it. "Why are you crying? Has someone died?"

"These are happy tears, Grandpa." I sniff loudly. "I'm happy."

"So you're here to tell me you're making me a great-grandfather?"

"What?" I struggle to find the correlation. "No!"

"Ah." He coughs, the sound genuinely disappointed. His accent sounds rougher after hours of intubation for the surgery. "Get out of here and come back when you have news for me. I'd like to meet my great-grandchild before I kick the bucket, so you'd better hurry."

"Grandpa!" I admonish, unsure which part to address first.

But Miles doesn't share my views.

"Don't worry. I'm working on it, old man." He winks conspiratorially. "Having a lot of fun practicing, too."

"Are you trying to speed up my death, son?" The cannula slides down as Grandpa twists his nose. "Because it's working. I don't ever want to hear about that again."

I stare at them. My fairy tale and my own fairy godmother of sorts. If only Grandpa knew the part he played in our story…

All the things I've done in his name… I would do anything for him today, as I did then. But now I know that doing anything for him would mean no lies. Because any sadness the truth can incite doesn't mean I'm lacking as a grandchild. It means he only ever wants the best for me—even if our definitions of future don't match. Even now, as he wakes from certain death, his priority is to dry my tears and make me smile.

"Didn't you want a great-grandbaby?" Miles drawls, all smug and happy to see the old man back with his mischief.

"We will pretend you ordered it from the stork. Alright?"

My hanging jaw is bouncing from one to the other as they speak about my future baby like the future mother isn't in the room.

"There's no baby!" I shriek, trying to steer the conversation elsewhere.

Not anytime soon .

"Yet," they sing like a well-rehearsed choir.

A little human that is all Miles and me. The idea doesn't scare me as much as I thought it would. It doesn't scare me at all—quite the contrary. And I would like that, too, I think.

Someday.

"Thank God it's not really up to you, is it?"

The dimples wink at me, saying Miles will have the time of his life convincing me.

I will have the time of mine letting him think he has to.

I have plenty of practice at pretending, after all

The warmth of the setting sun doesn't get a second to kiss my face. Because Miles is there, doing it himself.

But this kiss is different from any other we've shared—and I wonder if it will always be like that, if we'll always discover new angles in the familiar shapes.

It's bruising, the kiss.

Like he's both punishing me for running away and embedding himself into my soul, so I have no peace, no home—only him.

"Still so mad at you," he growls into my mouth, not wasting time to kiss me again.

My reply is breathless, as I tangle my fingers in his hair. "Glad to see you're learning the art of multitasking."

"Yeah?" His nails dig into my ass. "Let's go home so my fingers can get some practice too."

I won't argue with that. As a matter of fact, I lead the way with eager steps, yearning to lose myself in his arms where nothing else can touch me—not even reality .

If only for a few hours.

As we walk, I squeeze the perfect muscles of his ass. "Blackstein?"

"Yes, love?"

"I love you."

For all the time I've felt it, for all the times I've just looked at him or thought of his face and those words immediately popped into my head in bold, golden letters—I don't often voice them.

Every time I do, it's like it's the first time I say the L-word all over again. His head whips in my direction so fast that he trips on his own feet, the ones that so gracefully take him distances on white-stripped green fields. Always careful to keep me upright and intact, though, he straightens quickly and faces me.

But I'm already facing him, watching as the three little words wrap around him, taking root deep and blooming in his chest. He grins up at the sky, and the sun shoots up from within him—not the other way around.

"Get out of the way!" We're startled by an intruding horn.

"She loves me, lady," Miles yells back. "I need a second."

The blonde lady behind the wheel isn't moved. "Get out of the way or I'll call the police."

Shooting her my best apologetic look, I pull my short-circuited non-fake boyfriend to the side. Her farewell comes with an angry press on the gas pedal, and she leaves us blissfully alone.

"Home." He makes us almost jog toward my Jeep. "I need you home, now."

"Just another kiss." I try an uncharacteristic pout, knowing he can't deny me .

Leaning against my car, I wait for him to cage me in. He doesn't make me wait, his heat more scorching than the sun-warmed hood of the Jeep.

"If I kiss you now." He bends down to whisper in my ear. "There's no way I'll be able to make myself stop. And we've already angered enough people today. Spending the night in a police station would definitely hinder the plans I have for you." His nose grazes my neck as he finishes. "And I do have plans that entail the entire night."

"Awfully sure of yourself," I mirror his tone, tipping my head to give him access.

"Nah, just very greedy and hungry and with a lot of free time on my hands now that I'm unemployed."

Though he knows it isn't necessary, he doesn't waste the opportunity to grab my waist and give me a boost. As soon as I'm settled, he invades my senses to pull the seat belt and buckle me in.

When I'm effectively trapped in, he seizes my neck in his wounded hand and kisses me. He kisses me in a way that will bruise too, bruise deeper than skin, only stopping when he knows I'm panting through swollen lips and tingling all over.

"Go." I shove him away, trying to yank the door shut. "Or we'll never leave this parking lot."

The door doesn't close until he relents. Forearms folded on the window, he gives that damn indented smirk. "I definitely could make that work, too."

"Go away. Now!"

With a final glance at me, as though he's memorizing me once more, taking his fill for the ride home, he jogs away to his shiny car. I stare with swollen lips that break in a grin as he yells over his shoulder, "Drive safe, Furiosa! "

I turn the ignition, and I go home.

I go home and I get lost in the arms of my love.

Tomorrow, all the struggles, all the uncertainties, all the fears will still be here.

But so will he.

So will I.

Forever resides in the quiet moments we live together and the memories we make—the little nothings in between the big things.

And we are forever.

In this moment, we are forever.