CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Sweetest Storm
Piper stood at the bathroom mirror, Beau's too-large flannel hanging off one shoulder, toothbrush poised mid-air. It had, against all odds, survived the emotional apocalypse of the past month intact.
"You came all this way," she informed her reflection, "just to fall in love with a man who talks to goats."
From the bedroom, Beau's voice carried faintly. "I heard that."
She grinned around a mouthful of toothpaste. "You talk to the goats more than you talk to people."
"They're better listeners."
"You mumble less around them, too."
"That's a lie."
"Is it?"
He appeared in the doorway a moment later, towel slung low on his hips, hair damp and unruly, and she dropped the toothbrush into the sink with a clatter that was entirely his fault.
"Well," she said, blinking slowly. "That's unfair."
"What is?"
"Looking like that before I've had coffee."
"You've had two cups."
"Not enough to prepare a person for all that chest."
He leaned into the doorframe, unbearably pleased with himself. "You like the chest, huh?"
"I tolerate the chest."
She fished the toothbrush back out of the sink, sighed, and surrendered. "Fine. I love the chest. Happy?"
His smile softened into something less playful. "Yeah." A beat. "I love you too, you know."
The toothbrush froze mid-bristle.
She stared at him.
He shifted, the smallest bit, some of the ease draining out of his shoulders now that the words were actually out in the room with them. "Sorry. There should've been music, probably. A better lead-in. Something about stars."
She dropped the toothbrush a second time and launched herself into his arms. He caught her instantly, towel losing its battle with gravity and momentum both.
"Whoa — careful," he laughed, holding her steady. "Limited fabric situation here."
She didn't care. He'd said it — not in the middle of a fight, not after a storm, not between bites of toast. He'd said it because he meant it, plain and unhurried, the way he said everything that mattered, in a bathroom with wet hair and no music at all, which somehow made it better than any version she might have scripted for him.
She pulled back, cupping his face in both hands. "Say it again."
"The towel warning, or the part about loving you?"
She swatted his chest.
"Piper Lane," he said, voice low and certain, "I love you. In the big, terrifying, this-changes-everything kind of way."
Her eyes filled instantly. She laughed through the tears anyway. "Dammit. I wanted to be cool about this."
He kissed her forehead. "You're never cool. That's one of my favorite things about you."
She buried her face in his chest, laughing harder now. "I love you too."
"I know."
"You know?"
"You built a whole desk just to have a reason to stick around. That's love."
"I thought you built the desk."
"Semantics."
They both laughed, then stilled, and in the stillness something settled — no more storms circling overhead, no more distance keeping them at arm's length.
Just this strange, beautiful, entirely unglamorous life they were building, splintered in places and messy in others and entirely, unmistakably theirs.
?
That afternoon the clouds rolled back in, soft and moody instead of threatening, as though even the sky had decided to try its hand at romance.
Piper curled on the porch swing with her knees tucked beneath her, Beau stretched out beside her with one arm slung around her shoulders and the particular satisfied look of a man who'd finally stopped bracing for the other shoe.
"It's poetic," she said, eyeing the horizon, "that we met in a literal disaster."
"Yeah. Really nailed the meet-ugly."
"Is that what this is?"
"Could be."
She let her head fall against his shoulder. "You ever think we'd have made it without the storm?"
"No," he said, honest as always.
"Me neither."
They rocked in silence a while, the swing creaking gently, before he said, "Jesse texted again this morning."
She lifted her head. "What'd he say?"
"Wants to come out. See the place." He stared out at the field, jaw working through something she'd learned to let him finish on his own time. "Six years, and he just asks like it's nothing. Like he could show up Saturday and we'd be fine."
"Are you going to say yes?"
"Told him to come." He said it almost like it surprised him to hear it out loud. "Figured if I could let you back in the door after everything, I could open it for him too. Even if it's just a crack."
She reached for his hand, said nothing, and let that be enough — because she understood, better than most, that some doors take longer to open all the way than they do to open at all.
After a while he shook the weight off with visible effort and reached for lighter ground. "You left your laptop on the counter again."
She groaned. "I'm trying to unplug."
"That's why I ran a power strip out to the shed."
She blinked up at him. "You what?"
"Might've upgraded the Wi-Fi too."
"You what?"
He shrugged like it was nothing, though his ears had gone faintly pink. "Figured if you're sticking around, you'd want somewhere to work that doesn't smell like goats."
She laughed, leaning into him harder. "You upgraded your apocalypse bunker with high-speed internet. For me."
"Well," he said. "I'm not a monster."
"You're definitely my monster."
He glanced sideways. "Pet name or a warning?"
"Bit of both."
He chuckled — an easy, unguarded sound — and she felt it settle into place somewhere under her ribs.
"I like this," she said softly.
"This?"
"You. Me. This porch swing. The quiet."
He tipped his head back against the post, studying the clouds. "Not much of a fairy tale."
"No," she agreed. "It's better."
She turned toward him, one knee crossing over his, hands settling against his chest. "Beau Walker. You are grumpy, stubborn, emotionally avoidant, and constitutionally incapable of small talk."
"You really know how to flatter a guy."
She pressed closer, lips brushing his jaw. "And I have never loved anyone more in my life."
His arms came around her without hesitation, pulling her fully into his lap, the swing swaying under the shift of weight.
"Say it again," he murmured.
She kissed the corner of his mouth. "I love you."
Lower, softer. "I love you."
He caught her mouth fully with his — slow, deep, unhurried, carrying the full weight of everything they hadn't been able to say until this porch, this swing, this particular gray afternoon.
"You're sure the goats won't interrupt us again?" she whispered, teasing, against his mouth.
He pulled back just far enough to breathe, forehead against hers. "They've been warned."
"And the weather?"
"Clear for days."
"Then what are we waiting for?"
He stood, lifting her with him, one hand braced at the small of her back, the other steady at her thigh, and carried her inside.
The swing kept creaking gently behind them, empty now. The farmhouse, though — full of quiet laughter and breathless, half-finished promises — wasn't empty at all.