Bonus Scene Always
RYAN
Fifty.
The word doesn’t feel real.
I’m standing barefoot on the lanai of our little beachfront bungalow in Maui, the sky streaked pink and gold as the sun lowers itself toward the ocean like it’s in no hurry.
The trade winds are warm, carrying salt and plumeria and the distant sound of laughter from the beach below.
Somewhere inside, Nate is humming—soft, absentminded, the same way he’s done for decades now—and my chest tightens with that familiar ache that isn’t pain so much as… fullness.
Too much love, all at once.
We’ve been here two days already, just the two of us. No friends. No chaos. No schedules. That part comes tomorrow, when our chosen (and blood) family descends on the island with kids and partners and noise and joy. But Nate insisted—firmly—that we needed time first.
“Just us,” he’d said, pressing a kiss under my ear while we packed. “We earned that much.”
God, he was right.
I lean my forearms on the railing and watch the waves roll in, steady and relentless. I think about how many times in my life I thought happiness was loud—crowds, championships, applause. I didn’t understand then that the best moments would be like this instead. Quiet. Earned. Shared.
Behind me, footsteps pad across the tile.
“You’re thinking too hard,” Nate says, voice warm with fondness.
I smile without turning around. “You say that like it’s new information.”
He snorts softly and slides in behind me, arms wrapping around my waist. His chin settles on my shoulder, solid and familiar, and I breathe him in—sunscreen, coffee, and home. Always home.
“Birthday boy brooding already?” he murmurs.
“Reflecting,” I correct.
“Uh-huh.” His lips brush my neck, a slow kiss that sends heat curling low in my belly. “Dangerous.”
I turn in his arms, cupping his face. The lines around his eyes are a little deeper now, laugh lines earned the hard way, but he’s still devastating. Still the man who undid me at seventeen and again at thirty and every single day since.
I kiss him. Soft. Lingering. The kind of kiss that says we have time.
Fifty years old, and he still kisses me like that.
“Happy birthday,” he says quietly.
I rest my forehead against his. “Thank you for my life.”
He blinks. “That’s… dramatic.”
“Accurate,” I counter.
He rolls his eyes but smiles anyway, that soft, crooked smile that still feels like a gift. “Come inside. I’ve got something for you.”
I arch a brow. “You already gave me Hawaii.”
“And you complain?” He grabs my hand and tugs me toward the bedroom.
The bungalow is simple—light wood, open windows, white curtains moving lazily in the breeze. Our suitcases sit half-unpacked, because neither of us rushed. There was no need. Nate lets go of my hand and crosses to the dresser, opening the top drawer.
“You didn’t have to—” I start.
“Ryan.”
I stop.
He turns, holding a small, worn leather notebook in both hands. The edges are softened with age. The cover creased. My breath catches instantly.
“No way,” I whisper.
“I rescued it from a box in the garage,” he says. “The one labeled Don’t Throw Away, Nate Will Murder You.”
I laugh, a startled sound. “I forgot about that thing.”
“You didn’t,” he says gently. “You just stopped talking about it.”
He hands it to me, and my fingers tremble as I take it. The leather is warm from his hands. I open it slowly.
Inside is my handwriting.
Messy. Young. Hopeful.
Lists. Dreams. Scribbled plans written by a teenage kid who believed wanting something badly enough might make it real.
I swallow hard.
“I wrote in it when I left,” I say.
“I know.”
“I thought I’d lost it.”
Emotion hits me square in the chest, sharp and sudden. I flip through the pages—dreams of basketball, yes, but also things I’d forgotten I’d written.
Find my way back.
Be brave enough to choose him.
Build something that lasts.
My vision blurs.
“I didn’t know if you’d want to see it again,” Nate says softly. “But I thought… fifty felt right.”
I look up at him, this man who has seen every version of me—cocky, scared, broken, healing—and loved me anyway.
“You kept this,” I manage.
“I keep everything that matters,” he says simply.
I pull him into me, holding him tight. He makes a surprised sound before melting into my arms, his hands fisting in my shirt.
“I don’t deserve you,” I murmur into his hair.
He huffs. “You absolutely do not get to start your birthday like this.”
I laugh wetly. “Too late.”
He tilts his head up, kisses my cheek, my jaw, my mouth. Slow kisses. Familiar kisses. The kind that say we survived.
“You built the life you dreamed about,” he says against my lips. “You fought for it. For us.”
“I fought because you were worth fighting for.”
He smiles, eyes shining. “Still am.”
Always.
Later, we lie tangled in the sheets, the ceiling fan humming lazily above us. Nate traces circles on my chest, his head pillowed against my shoulder.
“Tomorrow’s going to be chaos,” he says.
“Worth it.”
“Your friends have already started a betting pool on who cries first.”
I snort. “It’s you.”
“Rude. I’m emotionally regulated now.”
“You cried at a car commercial last month.”
“That dog found his way home,” he protests.
I kiss the top of his head. “You’re a good man, Nate Griffin.”
“So I’ve been told.”
I stare at the ceiling, heart full to bursting. “I don’t know how I got this lucky.”
He lifts his head, looks at me seriously. “You chose me.”
I meet his gaze. “Every time.”
He smiles, soft and certain. “No take backs.”
Outside, the ocean keeps moving. Tomorrow will bring noise and laughter and candles and fifty years worth of stories shared with the people we love.
But right now, in this quiet, with the man who chose me back, I know one thing with absolute certainty:
I have been blessed beyond measure.
Especially in love.