68. Peyton
PEYTON
Later that night, I sit cross-legged on the barstool at the kitchen island while scrolling through graduate program information on my laptop.
Not because I’ve decided anything yet.
I’m just... looking.
Thinking.
Wondering if maybe the life I imagined isn’t the life I want anymore. That Florida is not where I belong.
It also has to do with the letter from my rental insurance company.
My mouth dropped open when I read it.
After losing everything, I was finally going to see a twenty-thousand-dollar payout. Enough for a car and to consider returning to college to pursue something I've been toying with.
Counseling.
Daltyn walks in from showering, damp hair messy, gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips.
My brain short-circuits.
His eyes flick toward my screen. “What are you doing?”
“Just browsing.”
He walks over without hesitation, stopping behind me.
One massive hand settles on the back of my chair while the other brushes lightly across my shoulder.
“What if I want something different now?” I ask quietly.
Daltyn doesn’t even hesitate. “Then we figure it out.”
Emotion lodges painfully in my throat. “What if it’s complicated?”
His lips brush softly against my temple.
“Baby,” he murmurs, “I survived Connor Byrns for three years.” His mouth twitches. “I can survive complicated.”
I laugh helplessly.
But my chest aches anyway.
Because somewhere along the way, this stopped feeling temporary.
And maybe the most dangerous part? I don’t think either of us knows how to let go anymore.