Chapter 29 – Oliver
The morning light slips through the cabin window in thin, golden lines, warming the edge of the blanket draped over us. I blink awake slowly, the kind of slow that only happens when sleep was good — deep, peaceful, safe.
Ellie shifts beside me.
She’s not fully awake yet. Her eyes flutter, her breathing soft and uneven as she tries to pull herself into the morning. Her hair is a mess, her cheek pressed against the pillow, and she looks… God. She looks like everything I didn’t know I wanted.
She opens her eyes halfway, sees me, and gives me the smallest, sleepiest smile.
“Hi…” she whispers, voice raspy.
Something in my chest pulls tight.
“Hi,” I whisper back.
She scoots closer — not even thinking about it — and rests her head against my chest. My arm moves around her automatically, like my body already knows what to do. She fits there too easily. Too perfectly.
We stay like that for a minute.
Just breathing.
Just existing.
Just being warm together.
I close my eyes for a second, memorizing the weight of her against me, the way her fingers curl lightly against my shirt, the soft smell of her hair.
I could get used to this.
I could get addicted to this.
I’m already in trouble.
Ellie sighs softly, the kind of sound that feels like trust, and I hold her a little tighter — just for a moment — before she finally sits up, rubbing her eyes.
“Morning,” she says again, a little more awake now.
“Morning,” I say, trying not to stare at her like she’s the sunrise itself.
And just like that…
I know I’m not ready for this weekend to end.
Ellie sighs, the sound warm against my chest. “I don’t wanna get up…”
I laugh softly. “Me neither.”
But eventually she sits up, rubbing her eyes, hair sticking out in every direction. She looks adorable. She’d probably hit me if I said that out loud.
She stands, stretching again, and I force myself to get up too before I drag her back into my arms and never let her leave.
The cabin feels different in the morning light — still cozy, still perfect, but with that quiet sadness that comes when something good is ending.
Ellie hums while folding the blankets we used last night. I watch her for a second too long, then pretend I wasn’t staring when she glances over.
Moony trots around, sniffing everything like she’s saying goodbye.
I grab our bags and start loading the car. The air outside is crisp, pine-scented, the kind of morning that makes you want to stay forever.
When I come back inside, Ellie is carefully wrapping the lilac peonies in a soft towel.
She handles them like they’re something precious.
Something worth protecting.
Something worth remembering.
My chest tightens.
I didn’t think the flowers would matter this much. I just… wanted to make her smile. But seeing her treat them like this — like they’re a piece of the weekend she refuses to let go of — it hits me harder than I expect.
She looks up at me, cheeks pink. “I want them to make it home.”
I swallow. “They will.”
She smiles, and I swear I feel it in my ribs.
The road stretches out in front of us, sunlight flickering through the trees as we leave the cabin behind. Ellie talks for a while — about Moony, about the fire, about how she wants to come back someday — and I listen, soaking in every word.
But eventually her voice gets softer. Slower.
She leans her head back against the seat, blinking heavily.
“You can sleep,” I say quietly. “I’ve got you.”
She nods, already halfway there.
Within minutes, she’s out — breathing soft and steady, her hair falling across her cheek. I reach into the backseat, grab the blanket, and drape it over her gently.
She doesn’t wake.
She just curls into the warmth, trusting me completely.
My chest aches.
I keep one hand on the wheel, the other resting near her knee — not touching, just close — and drive through the quiet morning, thinking about everything we said last night.
The future.
The home she imagined.
The kitchen I joked about.
The way she said “me too.”
I replay it over and over, wondering if she meant it the way I did.
Wondering if she feels the same pull I do — the one that makes me want to hold her forever, the one that makes the thought of dropping her off feel like losing something I just found.
Ellie shifts in her sleep, the blanket slipping a little, and I adjust it gently.
She doesn’t wake.
But she smiles.
And that’s enough to undo me completely.
The familiar roads start appearing before I’m ready for them.
The pine trees thin out.
The air loses that crisp cabin smell.
The sky looks a little less magical, a little more… normal.
And I hate it.
Ellie is still asleep beside me, curled under the blanket I tucked around her. Her head is tilted slightly toward the window, lips parted just a little, hair falling across her cheek in soft waves. She looks peaceful. Safe. Like the world hasn’t touched her yet this morning.
I slow down as we pass the “Welcome to Greenville” sign.
My chest tightens.
We’re home.
But it doesn’t feel like home the way the cabin did.
I glance at Ellie again. She shifts, her fingers curling around the edge of the blanket, and I smile without meaning to.
She made this weekend feel like something out of a dream.
And now we’re driving back into reality.
I wish I could turn the car around.
Moony lifts her head from the backseat, tail thumping softly against the seat. She yawns, then rests her chin on the console between us, staring out the windshield like she knows exactly where we are.
“Yeah, girl,” I whisper. “We’re back.”
Ellie stirs at the sound of my voice.
Her eyes flutter open slowly, adjusting to the light. She blinks, confused for a second, then looks at me — and smiles. That soft, sleepy smile that hits me right in the ribs.
“Are we…?” she murmurs.
“Almost home,” I say quietly.
She sits up, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “I fell asleep?”
“Yeah,” I say, trying not to sound too fond. “You were out.”
She groans softly. “I didn’t mean to.”
“I know,” I say. “You looked comfortable.”
Her cheeks warm, and she looks out the window, watching the familiar streets roll by. “It feels weird being back.”
“Yeah,” I admit. “It does.”
Because it does. It feels like stepping out of something magical and into something smaller.
Like the world shrank the moment we crossed the town line.
Ellie reaches over and rests her hand on my arm — just a light touch, but enough to make my breath catch.
“I had the best weekend,” she says softly.
I swallow. “Me too.”
She squeezes my arm gently, then lets her hand fall back into her lap. But the warmth stays.
We turn onto her street, the houses lined up neatly, the morning sun hitting the roofs in a way that feels too ordinary after everything we just lived.
Her house comes into view.
Her dad is already on the porch, coffee mug in hand, smiling when he sees us pull in.
I park slowly, wishing I could drag out the moment just a little longer.
Ellie unbuckles her seatbelt but doesn’t move right away. She looks at me, eyes soft, full of something that makes my heart stumble.
“Thank you,” she whispers. “For everything.”
I nod, because I can’t trust my voice.
She leans over and hugs me — really hugs me — arms around my neck, warm and close and perfect. I hold her back, breathing her in, wishing I could freeze time.
When she pulls away, she gives me one last smile before opening the door.
Moony jumps out first, racing toward her dad. Ellie follows, blanket still wrapped around her shoulders, flowers held carefully in her hand.
I watch her walk up the porch steps, her dad hugging her, asking about the trip, smiling at Moony.
And I sit there for a second, gripping the steering wheel, feeling the empty space beside me like a physical ache.
The passenger seat looks wrong without her in it.
Too quiet.
Too cold.
Too empty.
I exhale slowly.
This weekend changed something in me.
Something big.
Something I can’t ignore anymore.
I put the car in reverse, glance at Ellie one more time — her laughing at something her dad said, sunlight catching in her hair — and I know the truth.
She is the one and only, love of my life.