Raven
Our lives find their rhythm, and before either of us realizes it, summer arrives.
The days grow lazy and bright. The air hangs heavy with summer heat, and at night, the steady chorus of cicadas drifts through the open windows.
The cottage changes with us. Sam builds window boxes beneath the front windows, and I fill them with pale blossoms and trailing vines that soften the weathered lines of the cottage.
Inside, linen curtains billow in the warm breeze, fresh-cut flowers brighten the kitchen table, and shoes get kicked off by the door. The scent of pine and warm earth drifts through the house.
Life settles into a series of small rituals that matter simply because they're ours.
Every morning, we drink our coffee on the porch.
Evenings are spent lingering over dinner until daylight gives way to dusk.
At night, the cottage glows soft and warm.
We've started to build a life here, one that finally feels like home.
One evening, we're sitting on the porch steps, sharing a bowl of cut fruit between us. Our shoulders brush, his hand finding mine without thought. The ease of it makes my chest ache.
“Have you ever thought about kids?” I ask.
The question slips out soft, unarmed, like I’m asking about the weather.
Sam goes still beside me. He doesn’t look at me right away. Instead, he watches the fireflies dancing through the trees, their soft glow catching in his eyes as the forest hums around us.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “I have.”
I turn toward him, hope blooming.
“Just not yet,” he adds gently.
The hope settles into something quieter.
“You’re young,” he says, glancing at me now. “You should get to live a little first. And me, I’ve got things to figure out.”
“The club?” I ask.
“The club,” he agrees. “There’s a threat still out there. I’m on probation and can’t make real money. It wouldn’t be fair to bring a kid into all of this.”
I trace a line along the wood beneath us, letting his words settle. Part of me wishes his answer had been different. The rest of me knows he's right.
“I’m not in a rush,” I tell him. And it’s true. “I just like thinking about it for someday.”
He smiles, soft and real, the kind he saves for moments like this.
“Someday,” he echoes, then pulls me onto his lap, my head fitting under his chin, his arm wrapping around me in a way that feels steady and sure.
We sit there as the sky deepens into purple, talking about nothing important after that. Movies we want to see. Places we might go. Ordinary plans that feel extraordinary because they belong to us.
When the insects quiet and the air cools, he shifts beneath me, lifting me easily into his arms, and carries me inside.