Chapter 41
TROY
I've been sprawled in this armchair at the back of Elliot's Books & Oddities for two hours, but I'm not even close to being bored.
The shop closed twenty minutes ago. Mr. Abernathy left after dinner, entrusting Delilah with locking up as usual. Now it's just us—me with my engineering textbook open but mostly ignored, and Delilah moving through the stacks, reorganizing a section that some customers apparently decimated earlier.
Rain patters against the windows, turning the already cozy bookshop into something that feels almost magical.
The smell of old books and hot chocolate, the warm yellow light from the antique lamps, and Delilah humming under her breath as she works—it's perfect in a way I never would have appreciated before her.
She's standing on a small step stool, stretching to reach a high shelf. Her UMS hoodie—technically mine, but I've long given up any claim to it—rides up slightly, revealing a sliver of skin. I should probably offer to help, being several inches taller, but I'm enjoying the view too much.
“You could help instead of staring, you know,” she says without turning around.
I grin. Of course she knows I'm watching.
“I could,” I agree, not moving. “But where's the fun in that?”
She shoots me a look over her shoulder, eyebrow raised in that way that used to intimidate me and now just makes me want to kiss her.
“Besides,” I add, “I'm learning valuable architectural principles. Weight distribution. Structural integrity. The perfect angle of your—”
“Don't finish that sentence if you want to stay past closing,” she warns, but I can hear the smile in her voice.
I close my book and finally stand, stretching my arms overhead. “If you insist, I suppose I could be useful.”
I move to her side, easily sliding the final few books into place above her head. She steps down from the stool and looks up at me, arms crossed but smiling.
“Show-off.”
“It's not showing off if you're genuinely impressed,” I say, resting my hands on her hips.
“Who says I'm impressed?”
“Your face. Right now.”
She rolls her eyes, but doesn't step away. Instead, she tugs at the front of my shirt, pulling me down for a kiss that starts soft and quickly becomes something else. My hands tighten on her waist as she presses closer, her fingers threading into my hair.
When we break apart, her cheeks are flushed, and I'm feeling a little dazed myself.
“Okay,” she admits, a little breathless. “Maybe I'm a little impressed.”
I laugh, pressing my forehead against hers. “I'll take it.”
We stay like that for a moment, just breathing each other in.
I still can't quite believe we're here—that after months of missing her, of thinking I'd screwed everything up beyond repair, she's back in my arms. That she trusts me.
That she's letting me see all the parts of herself she usually keeps hidden.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks quietly.
“How much I don't deserve you,” I say honestly.
It's only been ten days since we won the competition, but it feels like everything has changed. Like we've been living in some magical bubble where all the walls we spent months building just dissolved overnight.
We've barely spent an hour apart since that moment on stage. Something shifted when she asked me to join her celebration, and neither of us have looked back. All the hesitation, all the careful distance—gone, replaced by this incredible ease between us that I never thought possible.
Even Jared, who spent a solid week sulking about losing the competition, pulled me aside at Freddie’s party last night.
"You guys look good together," he'd said grudgingly, watching Delilah laugh with Tara across the room. “Like, disgustingly happy good. It's annoying as hell.”
And he's right. We are disgustingly happy. The kind of happy I never thought was meant for people like me—who grew up learning that the safest way to love someone was from a distance, or not at all. Yet here we are, falling asleep together, waking up together.
She pulls back slightly, eyes serious. “Don't say that.”
“It's true though.”
“No, it's not.” She cups my face in her hands, forcing me to meet her gaze. “You deserve good things, Troy. Why is that so hard for you to believe?”
I shrug, uncomfortable with how easily she sees through me sometimes. “Force of habit, I guess.”
She studies me for a moment, then seems to make a decision. She takes my hand and leads me to the reading nook in the corner—a small alcove with a window seat piled with cushions. It's our spot now, where we spend rainy evenings like this one when she has to close up.
We settle into the cushions, Delilah tucked against my side, both of us looking out at the rain-slicked street.
“Remember that first night you showed up here?” she asks. “With the donuts?”
I smile at the memory. “You were so annoyed.”
“I was hungry,” she corrects. “And suspicious.”
“Fair.”
“Did you know then?” she asks, her voice softer. “That this would happen?”
I think about it, my fingers tracing lazy patterns on her arm. “No. I just knew I wanted to be around you. Even when you were driving me crazy.”
“Especially then,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice.
“Maybe,” I admit. “There's something about you when you're passionate or angry... it's like watching a force of nature.”
She shifts to look up at me. “Is that a compliment or an insult?”
“Definitely a compliment.” I press a kiss to her forehead. “You're magnificent when you're in your element.”
She makes a soft sound, somewhere between embarrassment and pleasure, and burrows closer into my side.
“What about you?” I ask. “When did you know?”
She's quiet for so long I think she might not answer. When she finally speaks, her voice is thoughtful.
“I think part of me knew at Thanksgiving,” she says. “Seeing you with your family, how much you cared for them... it scared me how much I wanted to be part of that. But I didn't want to admit it.”
I tighten my arm around her, remembering how close we came to never finding our way back to each other.
“I'm glad you gave me another chance,” I say quietly.
“I'm glad you wanted one.”
We fall silent, watching raindrops race down the windowpane. The bookshop creaks and settles around us, old wood and paper sighing in the quiet.
“Oh,” Delilah says suddenly, sitting up. “I almost forgot to show you.”
She reaches over to the small side table where she keeps her sketchbook and pulls it onto her lap. There's a slight hesitation before she opens it, a flash of vulnerability crossing her face.
“What is it?” I ask, genuinely curious. Delilah rarely shares her personal sketches—the ones she doesn't do for class or work.
“It's stupid,” she warns, but she's already flipping through pages.
“I doubt that.”
She finds what she's looking for and pauses, chewing her bottom lip. “I was just messing around. Thinking about... stuff.”
She hands me the sketchbook, and I find myself looking at an incredibly detailed architectural drawing. A house—modern but warm, with clean lines and large windows. But what catches my attention are the specific details.
There's a home gym tucked into one wing with enough space for weights and equipment. A garage workshop with skylights and what looks like custom storage for tools. An outdoor kitchen on a deck that wraps around to a fire pit. A master bathroom with a shower big enough for two.
It's not just any house. It's a house designed for someone specific.
For me.
“You put in a gym,” I say, my voice oddly thick.
“And a workshop,” she points out. “For your projects. I know you like tinkering with stuff.”
I flip to the next page, where she's drawn the interior layout. There's a spacious kitchen with an island—perfect for cooking. A living room with built-in bookshelves that stretch to the ceiling. An office with a drafting table by the window, clearly meant for her.
But what stops me cold is the detail in the margins. She's written notes:
Troy's gym - north-facing for cooler workouts
Extra high shower head because he's stupidly tall
Kitchen island big enough for his cooking experiments
Skylight above bed for stargazing
“You've been planning,” I say, something warm blooming in my chest. “For us.”
She shrugs, but her cheeks flush pink. “It's just sketches. I was bored.”
“These are incredibly detailed for just sketches,” I point out, unable to keep the smile from spreading across my face. “You even calculated the perfect shower height.”
“You're constantly complaining about hitting your head,” she mumbles. “It's annoying.”
I flip through a few more pages, taking in every thoughtful detail. A deck with space for Tara and Alfie to visit. A guest room labeled “for Ethan when he's between apartments.” A garden area with raised beds.
“I've been thinking,” she says, watching my face closely. “About after graduation.”
My heart beats a little faster. We've talked about the future in vague terms, both of us applying for jobs in different cities but hoping to end up close enough to make it work. But this feels... specific.
“It's just an idea,” she continues quickly. “But there's this firm in Denver that works on sustainable residential projects, and they reached out after the competition. And I know you've been talking to that engineering start-up in Boulder...”
“Which are less than an hour apart,” I say slowly, beginning to understand.
She nods, a small smile playing at her lips. “Exactly.”
I look back at the drawings, noticing more details I missed at first glance. The way the kitchen is laid out for someone who actually cooks. The climbing wall along one side of the gym. The space that could easily become a nursery someday, though she hasn't labeled it as such.
“This is a home,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “For us.”
“Someday,” she says, and I can hear the vulnerability beneath her casual tone. “Not right away, obviously. We'd need to save up, and it would take time to find the right lot, and—”
I cut her off with a kiss, my heart so full it feels like it might burst. When I pull back, her eyes are wide and questioning.
“I love it, it’s so creative Delilah.”
She shrugs, but her cheeks are pink. “It's just sketches.”
“It's the future,” I correct gently. “Our future.”
Her expression softens. “Maybe. If you want.”
“I want,” I say immediately. “Of course, I want that. With you.”
The intensity of my own certainty surprises me.
A year ago, the idea of planning a future with someone would have sent me running.
Now it feels like the most natural thing in the world—like all those years of keeping people at arm's length were just preparation for finding someone worth letting in completely.
Delilah searches my face, like she's looking for any trace of hesitation. "You're not freaked out? About me planning this far ahead?"
I take her hands in mine, meeting her gaze steadily. “The only thing that freaks me out is how much I want this. How easy it is to see myself building a life with you.”
Her eyes shine with unshed tears. “Even though I'm difficult and stubborn and—"
“Especially because of those things,” I interrupt, smiling. “They're part of what makes you you. And I love all of you, Delilah Greer.”