40
Turbo sprawls under the patio table, one ear inside out, keeping an eye on the squirrels in my yard.
A breeze carries a hint of pine and the deck is warm under my feet, the boards giving off that faint, baked-wood smell I love.
I’ve got my sketchbook open, my pencil tapping while I chase a drawing that doesn’t want to behave.
Inside, Joel is napping on my couch. His shoot ran late, and he fell asleep in the middle of the romcom we put on. I left the TV low, tucked a throw over him, and watched his jaw unclench before I slipped out here.
For the past week, it’s been a relief to shut the door on my overanxious, hyperaware, people-pleasing brain and simply exist as a woman in the presence of the man she loves.
I lose track of time the way I always do when I’m sketching. The first click makes me think of a sprinkler starting up. The second one doesn’t.
I glance over my shoulder.
Joel stands just inside the open screen, camera in hand, hair slightly disheveled. “Don’t mind me.” His voice is still hoarse from sleep.
I smile up at him as Turbo thumps his tail. “How long have you been up?”
“Not long.” He steps onto the deck. The camera looks effortless in his hands.
“I’m not camera-ready,” I warn. I’m wearing leggings and an oversized sweater, my hair is in a messy topknot.
He gives me that almost-smile I feel in my knees. “You’re Kenzie-ready. That’s enough.”
My sweater slips off my shoulder, just enough for the cool air to kiss my skin.
Click .
Joel’s knuckles brush the line of my jaw. “Keep sketching.”
I drop my gaze, grip the pencil tighter, and the world narrows to paper, graphite, contour, and texture.
Joel moves around me in a slow circle. My hair slips forward, and I tuck it behind my ear.
Click . I blow a fine dusting of graphite off the page.
Click . Turbo sighs and I smile without meaning to. Click.
“Look at me,” he says huskily.
I do. I forget the camera. I forget the version of me I’ve carried since I was fifteen and decided sweet was the safest place to stand.
“What do you see?” I ask.
He sits beside me and sets the camera on the patio table.
“This is what I see,” he says. “You think shy means small. It doesn’t. It means quiet. You think kind means soft. It does, but it also means fierce. You are beautiful, sensual, and vibrant.”
I can’t speak. There’s a warmth in my chest that has nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with recognition.
“Let me show you,” he adds.
He scrolls back to the first frame. It’s me at the table, looking into the distance, my lips parted, one shoulder bare, a secret smile curving my lips.
The woman he captured looks like me and also like someone I’m still becoming.
Maybe that’s the point. Joel didn’t invent her. He simply showed me where to look.
“This feels like looking in a mirror I can trust,” I say softly.
He presses his mouth to my temple. “You can trust it.”
Trying to lighten the moment, I say, “You’re very romantic about photographs.”
“I’m very romantic about you.”
I smile and playfully bump his arm, but I’m a little too enthusiastic and clearly underestimate my strength. Joel is relaxed and unprepared, and when I nudge him, he tumbles off his chair and falls to the deck.
My hand flies to my mouth. “Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry! I can’t believe I did that!”
He doesn’t move at first, just lets out a small groan.
I jump up and hurry to him. “Are you hurt?” Guilt floods me. I’ve never pushed anyone before. I feel like the world’s clumsiest bully.
He groans again. “Can you help me up?”
“Of course.”
I offer my hand. He grips it and I brace myself to pull him up. Instead, he gives a quick tug. I yelp and topple forward, landing on him, his body cushioning my fall.
A grin breaks out across his face. “The lengths I’ll go to make sure you’re on top,” he murmurs, and I laugh.
Stretched out over him, I take in his handsome face, the dark eyes I can get lost in, the tiny creases at the corners that hint at rare smiles, and the two-day stubble I’m a hopeless sucker for. He’s all strength and muscle and fierce heat, and I let the wonderful reality of him seep into me.
“So devious,” I say softly.
My hair falls like a curtain around us, blocking out the world and screening us in our own private bubble. Heat rises under my skin the way it does when a storm is still far away but the air has changed. We hold each other’s gaze for a long moment.
“One day you’ll tell me the full story of your scar,” I whisper.
“One day,” he says after a moment. “But not today.”
His hand lifts to palm the back of my head, and he tugs me down gently toward him. His lips brush mine, impossibly soft and warm. He coaxes me closer, parting my lips, and the skillful sweep of his tongue meets mine.
I let out a moan and he responds instantly, threading his fingers through my hair and tilting my head for a deeper angle. He slants his mouth over mine and deepens the kiss, unerringly discovering all my sensitive places.
He tastes of mint and coffee and complications. It’s my new favorite taste.
When I lift my head, his smile lingers against my mouth. “You make me happy,” he says simply.
Love for him swells in my chest. I want to say something profound and meaningful, but sometimes all that’s needed is the truth. “You make me happy too.”
I stare into his eyes. They feel like his handwriting—messy, honest, and mine to try to read.
I kiss him again.
I want to live inside this boneless, dreamy afternoon. To pattern the rest of our life on days like this: unhurried moments, stolen glances, quiet smiles. And the deep contentment of being with the person who fits the shape of your soul.