- thirty five - dana
The last chapter. I'm going to miss them so much!
. . .
I’m wearing one of his old black tees—it drowns me, slipping off one shoulder—and a pair of paint-splattered shorts
My hair’s twisted into a lazy bun, loose strands curling down my neck, and I’ve got a streak of blue paint across my cheek.
Somewhere in the room, Lord Muffin’s purring. Curled on top of a pile of paint-stained newspapers, completely unbothered by the chaos around her.
“You seriously want to paint the wall blue?”
“It’s not just blue. It’s Midnight Tempest.” Alex holds the sample up like it’s holy scripture. “It’s moody. Sexy. Unpredictable. It’s like me.”
I blink at him. “It’s giving sad Victorian orphan, actually.”
He grins, cocky and unbothered, standing in nothing but grey sweatpants and a paint-streaked smirk. His hair’s a mess, his arms are already splattered in color, and he looks too good for someone who picked the worst shade on the shelf.
“You know what’s giving sad?” he says, stepping closer. “Your suggestion. Terracotta Dream? Dana, that sounds like a candle that cries itself to sleep.”
I narrow my eyes. “At least it’s not Midnight Tempest. God. I should’ve known you’d pick something dramatic.”
“Dramatic?” he repeats, mock offended. “I am the picture of restraint.”
He gestures wide—and knocks over an open can of paint with his foot.
It hits the floor with a wet splorp.
I stare at the mess.
He stares at me.
“Do not,” I warn, stepping back slowly, “try to charm your way out of this.”
His grin stretches wider. “Define charm.”
“Alex.”
“You mean this charm?” He flashes his teeth, that ridiculous dimple in full effect.
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.” He leans in, eyes bright, voice low. “You love me.”
I freeze. His breath brushes my cheek. His fingers graze my hip, barely, like he knows exactly how to get under my skin and is doing it on purpose.
He knows what he’s doing.
Bastard.
“I do,” I admit quietly, heart thudding against my ribs.
His head tilts. That smug glint doesn’t leave his eyes. “Say it louder. Come on, full volume. Declare it to the gods of color swatches.”
I smack his arm with the nearest paintbrush.
He flinches, fake gasping. “Assault.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet, you’re in love with me.”
I roll my eyes so hard they might detach from my skull. “God, you’re annoying.”
“-ly hot. Yes, babe, I am.”
I stare at him—at the stupid curve of his grin, the ink winding down his arm, the muscle flexing where he casually rests his hand on his hip. Yeah. Infuriatingly hot.
“You’re lucky I love you.”
He pulls me to him by my waist, eyes glittering and presses a soft kiss to my forehead, casually. “And I love you too, Archer.”
It hits deep. I feel on cloud nine. Content. Happy.
Because two months ago, this wasn’t us. Two months ago, he’d just found out everything—about his mom, the overdose that never happened, how she’d twisted the truth. That night, he didn’t speak. Just listened. Quiet, deadly still.
But the next day, he dropped out of business school. Enrolled in philosophy like he’d finally stopped choking on someone else’s life.
He hasn’t spoken to his mom since.
Now, he works at a gym that pays more than it should, and weirdly, he actually enjoys it.
We live here now. Near uni. Two-bedroom, lots of sunlight, paint-stained floors because someone—him—keeps knocking things over.
And me? The café’s thriving. My mom’s healthy again and basically running the place with a latte in one hand and a clipboard in the other. Kyle’s back in school, aiming for med.
I just do classes part-time now. Life’s slower. Softer. Finally mine.
Alex steps back like he’s done being sentimental for five seconds. He twirls the brush in his hand with a devilish glint.
“Don’t you dare,” I say immediately, backing away from him with wide eyes.
“What?” he says innocently. “I’m just standing here. Holding a brush.”
“You’re plotting.”
“You wound me.”
He lunges.
I scream.
Paint splashes across my shirt, bright orange and wet and cold. I stand there in shock as Alex cackles like an actual demon.
“YOU PSYCHOPATH!”
“You’re welcome!” he yells, dodging as I lunge for him with a can of Midnight Tragedy or whatever the hell he called it.
We’re slipping on the tarp, shrieking, throwing paint at each other like children with zero hand-eye coordination. My hair’s ruined. His abs are covered in streaks. There’s color on the ceiling somehow.
We’re gonna have to repaint everything.
He finally grabs me, arms wrapping around my waist as I struggle and squirm and threaten to end him.
“Call a truce,” he murmurs against my neck, voice low and smug.
“Eat dirt,” I hiss.
He laughs. Loud and unfiltered. His cheek is pressed against mine. His hands are warm on my back.
And I think—God, I love this man.
Even when he’s being ridiculous. Even when he’s ruined two shirts and half a wall. Even when he’s smug and messy and cocky beyond reason.
Maybe because of that.
Because under all the chaos, he’s here. Steady. Real. Mine.
. . .
THE END
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