Chapter 30 Reed
REED
The sun had just dipped below the horizon, leaving behind a sky streaked in shades of burnt orange, soft coral, and dusky pink.
The clouds, scattered like watercolor brushstrokes, caught the last golden light and glowed like embers.
Everything was bathed in that fleeting, magical hue between day and night.
The air was warm enough to leave the windows down without a hoodie, the breeze carrying the scent of fresh earth and late spring blooms. It rustled gently through the trees, soft and unhurried, like even the wind had decided to slow down.
Crickets had just started their nightly chorus, and the first stars blinked quietly to life above.
It was the kind of night that felt like a pause—like time itself had decided to take a breath.
I’d spent the past hour prepping the bed of the truck like a man possessed—blankets layered for softness, throw pillows stolen from my couch, fairy lights I’d rigged along the sides that I may have borrowed from Dax’s Christmas tote.
I even brought a little speaker for music if she wanted it.
I didn’t know exactly what she needed from tonight, but I knew I wanted her to feel safe. Seen. And maybe a little spoiled.
In the small cooler I’d packed the snacks she always picked when we went to gas stations—spicy chips, peanut butter pretzels, some weird bagged pickle—and that God-awful bottled green tea she loved that tasted like grass and vomit.
I couldn’t help smiling as I double-checked everything.
No one had ever made me nervous the way she did.
Not like this. It wasn’t just about impressing her; for me, it was about honoring something fragile and important.
Something I didn’t want to mess up. I carefully placed the truck bed cover back on so things didn’t blow away as we drove.
My phone vibrated in my cupholder.
Little Birdie
I feel like a teenager sneaking out like this. Be outside in 2 minutes. Are you close?
I chuckled, heart kicking.
Me
pretty girl, you bringing back your rebellious streak? About 4 minutes away.
Little Birdie
Maybe… if you’re lucky.
By the time I checked the clock on my dash, it was already after nine. Later than I’d like since the drive was almost an hour. I let her know that it was going to be a bit after eight, but I needed time to clear my head after talking to Harper.
When I finally pulled up in front of Wren’s place, the porch light was off, and the living room sat mostly dark except for the soft flicker of the TV through the front window. Cam was probably passed out watching reruns again, sprawled across the couch like he did after a long day at the shop.
She was sitting alone on the porch wearing my hoodie, her spandex shorts showed off her legs, and half of her auburn hair was pulled back in a loose knot.
She glanced around like she was dodging security cameras, then jogged across the lawn and climbed into the truck, pulling the door closed with a soft click.
I chose to park on the side street for an easier exit.
“Hey,” she said, cheeks a little pink from the quiet adrenaline.
“Hey yourself,” I said, grinning as I pulled away from the curb. “Smooth escape.”
“Yeah, thank God for that. Not sure we want to deal with another sibling today.”
We both laughed as we drove, the town lights giving way to open roads and endless sky.
I kept my left hand on the wheel and let my right drift to her thigh—light, careful, like a question. She didn’t flinch or move away. Instead, her hand slid under mine and laced our fingers together. The way it made my chest feel tight and light at the same time? Nothing had prepared me for that.
Forty minutes later, we were nearing the overlook.
The road had narrowed to a ribbon of cracked asphalt, winding through thick woods and sleepy farmland until it opened up into this—this quiet, endless stretch of sky and stars.
The kind of place you didn’t find on purpose unless you were looking for stillness or maybe magic.
The overlook sat high above the bay, tucked just off Center Road on the Old Mission Peninsula.
To the west, rows of vineyards sloped down toward the bay, the moonlight brushing their leaves in silver.
To the east, fields rolled into shadow, soft and endless, and beyond them, Lake Michigan stretched out like a sheet of dark glass.
And directly in front of us stood our colorful little town.
It was littered with tiny twinkling lights that some had decorated their shops with.
The stars above were brighter here—sharper, louder somehow. Like they belonged to us. The wind was gentle, just enough to move her hair when I glanced her way. And in the quiet between us, I couldn’t help but think: this is the kind of night you remember for the rest of your life.
She looked around as I opened her door and helped her out, her fingers brushing mine as she slid down from the truck. That one small touch shouldn’t have felt as good as it did, but it always did with her.
Wren stepped forward, and I watched the way her eyes widened, the soft gasp that left her lips as she took in the view.
The lake shimmered under the moonlight, the reflection of stars scattered like glitter across the surface.
She turned slowly, like she didn’t want to miss a single piece of it—the rows of grapevines catching the first hues of moonlight mixed with darkness on their leaves, the hush of the wind through the trees, the lake stretching out toward forever.
Her face changed at that moment. Like something in her finally exhaled. That tension she always carried melted, just a little.
“I didn’t know the world could be like this,” she whispered, almost to herself. “So… quiet. So big.”
I couldn’t stop staring at her. The way the sky painted her in soft silver and shadow. She was always beautiful, but out here she was something else entirely. She was the brightest thing here.
“You deserve to feel this,” I said, voice low. “The quiet. The beauty. All of it.”
I walked her to the back of the truck, opened the tailgate, and pushed back the retractable cover. I gestured to the truck with a nervous shrug. “I figured… if you wanted to talk, or not talk… this might be a good spot.”
Wren blinked at the soft string lights I’d rigged up across the bed rails, the pillows tossed in to make it comfortable, the snacks tucked into a little crate I’d half-jokingly labeled “essentials.”
Then she looked at me. Her smile broke slowly, almost like she was trying not to let all of her emotions show all at once. But her eyes were already glassy, and when she reached up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her fingers trembled just slightly.
“This is…” Her voice caught, and she swallowed hard. “No one’s ever done something like this for me.”
Shit, she was about to cry.
“Wren,” I said gently, stepping a little closer, placing a hand on the small of her back. “You deserve things like this. You always have.”
She gave a wet laugh, then covered her mouth like she was embarrassed by how quickly her emotions were bubbling to the surface. “I just… I didn’t think I’d ever have this. Something soft. Someone who thought about what I needed without me having to ask. Reed, this is amazing. Thank you so much.”
“I didn’t have to think hard,” I smiled. “You’ve been running through my head for probably the past few years.”
Her breath hitched, and then she distracted herself by climbing into the truck bed, settling into the blankets, and wiping under her eyes before I could see the tears fall.
I didn’t say anything else. I just joined her, letting the quiet settle in. The kind of quiet that only existed when you knew the person next to you felt like home. And in that moment, with her tucked under the stars, I swore I’d never let her forget what it felt like to be chosen.
“You even packed my gross green tea and all of my favorite gross snacks,” she whispered, almost stunned.
“Of course I did,” I said. “I mean, you have questionable taste, but I’m not judging.”
She laughed, full and bright, and as I settled in beside her, shoulder brushing hers, I knew I’d never want to be anywhere else.