Willa held his gaze, tea warming her palms, heart burning in a way that had nothing to do with caffeine.

God, he really said that.

You’re the only quiet I’ve ever wanted to stay loud.

And he meant it. That was the part that undid her. Not the words themselves—though those were enough to tattoo across her ribs—but the way he looked at her when he said them. Like he’d already accepted every inch of her, even the ones she used to edit out.

She didn’t look away. Couldn’t.
Just blinked once. Swallowed slow. Let herself feel it.

Because this wasn’t a flashbulb moment. This wasn’t stage lights or interviews or liner notes she’d revise a dozen times. This was real. And she didn’t want to rush past it.

Her fingers traced a lazy circle on the table, just beside his hand, before she finally spoke.

“You keep saying things like that,” she murmured, low enough for no one else to hear, “and I’m gonna start writing vows on napkins and hiding them in your guitar case.”

Her smile curved as she sipped her tea, but her eyes didn’t leave his. They were too full. Too honest.

She finished the last bite of her croissant with a soft sigh—less from hunger, more from the way her chest felt like it was glowing under her hoodie.

He was wrecked. She could see it.
And the thing was—so was she.
Just wrecked in the best possible way.

The calm. The warmth. The knowing.

She reached across the table and tucked one of his curls behind his ear—light, lingering—then let her hand drop back to her tea without ceremony.

“I’m glad we didn’t die young,” she said finally, voice soft but sure. “Because this? This is so much better than burning out.”

No need for theatrics.
No need to explain what this was.
He already knew.

They finished their drinks without hurry, the silence between them rich and golden, the kind that filled in all the places where pain used to echo.

Once the mugs were empty and the plates were pushed aside, Willa stood, slipping her sunglasses back on as she adjusted her bag strap.

“You ready for the lighthouse?” she asked, nudging her boot gently against his under the table.

Her tone was lighter now—playful, grounding.

“Gonna need you to survive a hike with me after I’ve consumed half the pastry population of Iceland. Think you’re up for it?”

She held her hand out for his again—not because she needed to. Just because she wanted to.

Because holding his hand didn’t feel like a statement anymore.
It felt like a home.

Blake didn’t move right away.

Couldn’t.

Not with her words still wrapped around his ribs like thread—tight, soft, permanent.

Start writing vows on napkins and hiding them in your guitar case.

God.

He felt that. All of it. Like ink soaking into paper, like a chord that hit just right and echoed for days.

She looked at him like she meant it. Like she wasn’t afraid of how deep it ran anymore. And the way she said “I’m glad we didn’t die young”—like it was the most beautiful kind of defiance—knocked the wind out of him more than any stage dive ever had.

He watched her stand, watched the way the sunlight caught the edge of her hair and her smile and the glint of something lighter in her chest. She didn’t need to perform anymore. Neither of them did.

And when she nudged his boot and asked about the lighthouse—playful, casual, devastating in how simple it all felt—he made a face. A full, unfiltered grimace like she’d asked him to trek across a glacier barefoot with a guitar strapped to his back.

“Okay, but listen,” he said, rising from his chair with mock hesitation, “if I pass out halfway up a cliff, I’m blaming the croissants and you, in that order.”

She just extended her hand.

And fuck, that was it.

No one told him when he was nineteen, half-drunk on noise and trying to survive himself, that one day he’d be standing in an Icelandic café with the woman who’d made survival feel holy. That she’d reach for his hand not to steady him—but to walk beside him.

He slid his fingers into hers, palm to palm, sure as anything he’d ever written.

Not because she needed it.

Because they both wanted it.

“I’d hike through hell for you,” he murmured, leaning in just enough for her to hear it. “So yeah, lighthouse sounds great.”

He grabbed his jacket, slung it over his shoulder, and pushed his sunglasses up into his hair as they stepped toward the door. The café behind them softened into background noise—ceramic mugs, quiet laughter, nothing urgent.

But in front of them?

The trail. The ocean. The lighthouse waiting like a promise.

Blake didn’t look back.

Not once.

Just held Willa’s hand tighter and walked into the light.

The wind hit soft but persistent as they stepped outside, brushing past them like it already knew where they were going. The sky was streaked with that silvery-blue Icelandic brightness—clouds like watercolor, sun peeking through in lazy halos.

Willa adjusted her sunglasses and curled her fingers tighter around Blake’s as they started walking. The rhythm of it was slow at first, aimless almost, like neither of them was in a rush to reach anything. And honestly? They weren’t.

The further they walked, the fewer people they passed. The early morning clamor of cafés and side-street buzz gave way to open paths and wide, quiet air. Their boots scuffed against gravel, against flattened grass, against stone. The ocean glinted in the distance like it had a secret.

They talked—of course they talked.

Not big things. Not heavy things. Just soft ones. Half-remembered song lyrics, the absurdity of his future skincare jingle legacy, a shared irritation about pebbles in boots. She told him the sky here looked like an unfinished painting. He told her she looked like the part someone would never dare to paint.

She rolled her eyes at that. But she smiled, too.

As they neared the edge of the peninsula, the lighthouse finally came into view—whitewashed and stubborn against the gray-blue backdrop, standing at the end of the path like a scene from a dream she didn’t know she’d had until it was right in front of her.

Willa slowed, just for a beat, and looked at Blake.

Her chest ached in the best way. Not like fear. Not like survival. Like presence.

And then—deadpan, casual, wild-eyed mischief blooming like second nature—she spoke.

“Well,” she said, breath puffing out slightly as the wind tangled her hair, “if you pass out, I will drag your corpse the rest of the way up there. I’m getting that picture.”

She gave his hand a squeeze, grinning now.

“It’s going in the wedding slideshow, and if you’re dead, I’m just cropping you into a tux.”

The wind howled. The sea sparkled.

And Willa Jameson started walking again, steady toward the lighthouse with the man she loved beside her and the moment she’d always remember unfolding beneath her boots like the world finally figured out how to be soft.

Blake laughed—sharp, windblown, utterly wrecked.

Not because her words surprised him. God, no. Willa threatening to drag his lifeless body up a cliff for a lighthouse photo was probably the most on-brand love language she’d ever spoken.

But because she said it while the wind danced through her hair, and the light hit her cheekbones just right, and the ocean behind her looked like it was holding its breath just to watch her exist.

He stared for a second too long.

Long enough to feel it. That thing in his chest. That ache that wasn’t panic or loss or any of the old ghosts. Just fullness. Just her.

She was halfway up the path again by the time he found his voice.

“You’re a menace,” he called after her, grinning like a man already planning what kind of tux he wanted to be photoshopped into. “I hope you know that.”

She didn’t look back. Just tossed him a glance over her shoulder, sunglasses sliding down her nose, mouth pulled into that perfect, devastating almost-smirk.

He caught up.

Of course he did.

Fell back into step beside her like they were stitched from the same rhythm. Their hands brushed once, twice, before linking again—his fingers fitting against hers like the last piece of a song you didn’t know was missing until it hit the bridge.

The lighthouse loomed closer now. Tall. Weathered. Waiting.

Blake tilted his head toward her, voice low, just above the wind.

“For the record,” he said, “if I do die halfway up, I want the photo in black and white. With dramatic shadows. Maybe some Icelandic choir music playing behind it. And absolutely no Comic Sans in the slideshow. Don’t ruin my legacy.”

Willa didn’t respond. Just squeezed his hand again.

That was enough.

And as they climbed higher—boots crunching over gravel, laughter trailing behind them like smoke—Blake realized something:

This wasn’t a climax.
This wasn’t an ending.

This was the quiet middle of a life he’d never thought he’d get to keep.

Wind. Salt. Croissant crumbs in his chest pocket.
Willa at his side.
And the rest of forever unfolding like a trail he actually wanted to follow.

Willa didn’t look at him—couldn’t—not right away.

Because if she did, she might actually forget to breathe.

He’d said it like a joke. That soft, careful way he always balanced humor and heartache. But it landed like something real, like something sharp and glittering and holy. No Comic Sans. Choir music. A slideshow with shadowed black-and-white memories and her still climbing.

God.

She blinked hard, sunglasses hiding the sudden sting in her eyes. The good kind. The kind that came from being seen so completely it almost knocked the air out of her lungs.

Instead of answering, she squeezed his hand tighter. Let the warmth of his palm sink deeper into hers, let the moment hold without needing to fill it with words.

They kept walking.

The lighthouse rose closer with every step—bold against the stretch of sky, grounded in weather and time. The sea whispered around them. The path narrowed. The world got quieter.

And still, he didn’t let go. Not once.

By the time they reached the final stretch of the trail, her legs were aching and her cheeks were flushed, but Willa didn’t care. She turned toward the view, letting the ocean wind tug her hair out of place, letting the whole wide sky pour open above them.

Blake stepped up beside her, and without asking, she handed him her phone.

“Don’t even think about faking your death now,” she said, half-laughing as she tugged him into frame. “I’m getting this picture.”

He leaned in. She pressed her cheek to his, warm despite the chill, and grinned like a woman who knew exactly how far she’d come to stand in this light.

The shutter clicked.

Then once more.

And just like that—there it was. Proof.

Of survival.
Of softness.
Of them.

Willa looked at the photo, let herself actually see it. Him and her. Windswept and worn and wildly, inexplicably happy.

She didn’t say anything right away. Just turned and kissed his cheek. Slow. Intentional.

“This one’s going in the vows slideshow,” she murmured against his skin. “No Comic Sans. Just you. Just us. Just... this.”

And Blake?

He didn’t laugh this time.

He just nodded.

Because they both knew.

This wasn’t a snapshot.

It was a promise.

Blake didn’t move for a beat.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t joke. Didn’t deflect the way he used to when feelings crept too close to the surface and he wasn’t sure he deserved to hold them.

Because this—her—pressing that kiss against his cheek, saying this one’s going in the vows slideshow like it wasn’t just a moment but a memory already being written—this wrecked him.

In the quietest, kindest way.

He turned his head just enough to brush his nose against her temple, lips ghosting the edge of her hairline. His eyes flicked to the photo on her screen. A little blurry. A little wind-beaten. Her hair everywhere. His hoodie pulled too far off one shoulder. The lighthouse behind them like some strange, poetic witness.

Perfect.

Completely, impossibly perfect.

“Promise me,” he said softly, voice almost lost in the rush of sea wind behind them. “When we’re eighty—gray and cranky and yelling at the barista for forgetting our oat milk—you’ll still pull this up.”

She didn’t answer, but he felt it. The way she leaned into him. The way her fingers curled around his sleeve.

His mouth curved into something small, something broken open in the best way.

“Show them,” he murmured, “what it looked like. When we stopped running.”

He slipped the phone from her hand, opened the gallery, and favorited the photo.

Then he turned to her again—really turned, hands finding her waist, eyes soft behind his sunglasses.

“I want more pictures like this,” he said. “Hundreds. Thousands. Whole damn albums of you and me looking stupid and alive and in love in places we never thought we’d survive long enough to reach.”

She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

Her mouth found his, quiet and full, the kind of kiss that didn’t need to be deep to be everything.

The kind that said: I promise too.

Behind them, the lighthouse stood still. The ocean kept moving.

And in front of them?
The road home.
Whatever that meant.
Wherever it led.

But Blake knew—he knew—so long as she was beside him, it wouldn’t matter how far they had to go.

They’d make it.
Together.

Willa let her forehead rest against his for a second longer than necessary. The wind curled around them, tugging at her hair, at the corners of his hoodie where it hung loose on her frame. She didn’t close her eyes. Didn’t retreat.

She wanted to remember this. Every detail.

The way his breath hitched when she kissed his cheek. The reverence in his voice when he said, Show them what it looked like when we stopped running. The look in his eyes when he said he wanted albums of them—loud, ridiculous, real.

God, he’d just handed her a challenge. A dare in disguise.

He should’ve known better.

She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze—sunglasses nearly sliding down her nose, the grin already tugging at her lips like it had a mind of its own.

“Oh, you’re gonna regret saying that,” she murmured, voice low and edged with the kind of playfulness that came with years of learning how to love him. “By the time we’re eighty, we’re gonna need a whole damn wing for all the photos I’m gonna take of us.”

She leaned in again, lips brushing his jaw, her hand finding the hem of his hoodie and tugging it gently.

“Not just the perfect ones,” she added, tone softening. “I’m talking the real ones. You brushing your teeth in my shirt. Me yelling at hotel wifi. That time we locked ourselves out of the van in Prague.”

She felt his laugh against her mouth, low and warm and wrecked in the best way.

“Our whole messy, stupid, beautiful love story,” she said. “Printed. Framed. Scattered on walls we haven’t lived in yet.”

Her hand slid down to meet his again, fingers lacing like second nature, like gravity.

“I don’t want to forget any of it.”

She didn’t step away—not yet. Not when the sea wind was still curling at their backs and the lighthouse stood like a sentinel behind them, casting long shadows across the stone and salt-licked path.

Instead, she tugged him down gently to sit with her near the edge of the trail, just where the grass gave way to rocks and the ocean opened wide.

The waves moved slow below them, steady and breath-deep, and Willa let herself lean against his side, her head tucked beneath his jaw, both of them warm under his hoodie and the late morning light.

They didn’t speak for a while. Didn’t need to.

She could feel his breath slow. Could feel the steady beat of his heart beneath where her palm rested over his ribs.

This—right here—was the kind of quiet she’d fought so long to find.

And for once, she wasn’t in a rush to move.
To leave.
To capture the next thing.

She just wanted this.
Him.
Now.

“I think we should stay a little longer,” she said softly, without lifting her head.

And when she looked up, the way he looked back at her told her everything she needed to know:

They weren’t finished here. Not yet.

Not with the sea.
Not with the lighthouse.
Not with each other.

Not even close.

Blake didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe for a moment too long.

Because what do you even do with that kind of love? The kind that whispers instead of demands. That curls up beside you in the wind, in your hoodie, in the middle of nowhere with salt in her hair and forever tucked beneath her tongue.

Willa.

God, Willa.

She said it so casually—“I think we should stay a little longer”—like it wasn’t the most devastatingly gentle request he’d ever heard. Like she didn’t just anchor him right there on the edge of the world.

He looked down at her, tucked into him like she’d been carved out of the same ache he’d spent years trying to write out of his chest. Her head beneath his jaw. Her hand over his heart. Her voice still echoing in his ribs.

She wanted to remember everything.

Not the best of it. Not the polished, posed, tour-glossed highlights.

Everything.

The mess. The van. The broken locks and bad wifi and half-toothbrushed mornings. The photos they’d never post. The photos that mattered.

Blake tilted his chin down just slightly, enough to press a kiss to the top of her head. His lips lingered there—silent, certain, wrecked.

Yeah.
They’d stay.

They’d sit here with wind in their lungs and light on their faces and no one watching but the sea. They’d let the moment keep stretching until it wasn’t a moment anymore—it was a memory. A permanent one. A thread in the kind of life he never thought he’d get to keep.

His fingers tightened around hers. Not hard. Just honest.

And when she finally looked up, eyes shining behind her sunglasses, mouth soft like she’d already said the most important thing and didn’t need to say it again—Blake met her gaze and smiled.

Not the stage smile. Not the press smile.

His smile. The one only she ever got.

“We’ll stay,” he whispered. “As long as you want.”

And he meant it.

Here.
On this trail.
At this lighthouse.
At the start of whatever came next.

They weren’t finished.

Not even close.

Blake let the silence stretch.

Not because he was searching for something to say, but because he didn’t want to interrupt the moment. Didn’t want to fracture it with noise when it was already whole.

Willa’s head rested just beneath his chin, her breath warm against the hollow of his throat. She wasn’t speaking now—not because she didn’t have the words, but because she knew better than anyone when to let the quiet say it all.

And fuck, wasn’t that her magic?

Not just the fire. Not just the rebellion or the lyrics or the punchlines that always landed. But this.
This sacred stillness.
This gravity she carried without ever trying to.

Blake leaned back on one arm, the other wrapped around her waist, anchoring them both to the edge of the earth. The rocks beneath them were cold, solid, sea-slicked. The air tasted like salt and faraway places. The lighthouse towered behind them like a promise kept.

He could’ve stayed here forever.

Could’ve let the morning burn slowly into afternoon while they watched the ocean breathe in and out below them, both of them wrapped in old fabric and new forever.

Her fingers shifted slightly in his.

Not fidgeting.
Just present.

Like a note being held a little too long at the end of a song.

And for the first time in a long time, Blake didn’t feel like he had to move to feel alive. Didn’t feel like he had to prove anything. Or perform. Or push forward just to keep from unraveling.

Because Willa was here.
And she’d already seen him unraveled.

Hell, she held the frayed ends like they were meant to be tied.

He turned his head, pressed another kiss into her hair—so soft, so wind-tangled, so entirely hers—and whispered against it:

“I don’t think I knew what peace looked like until right now.”

No theatrics.
No declarations.
Just truth.

The sea roared below them. A gull cried out overhead. Somewhere far off behind them, a tourist laughed too loudly, unaware they were witnessing something holy.

Blake didn’t care.

He just let himself breathe her in. Let himself stay.

Because for once, there was nowhere else he’d rather be.
No spotlight to chase.
No ghost to outrun.

Just this.

Just her.

And the quiet they’d finally earned.

Willa didn’t move.

Didn’t look up. Didn’t blink. Didn’t say a damn word.

She just breathed him in.

Slow and quiet and full—like she was afraid that if she exhaled too fast, the moment might disappear. Like if she moved too suddenly, it might turn into a dream.

But it wasn’t.

It was real.

The weight of his arm around her. The warmth of his breath against her hair. The way his voice sounded when it wasn’t hiding behind distortion or distance or fear.

“I don’t think I knew what peace looked like until right now.”

God.

He said that like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t the most wrecking, sacred thing he’d ever given her.

She closed her eyes, let the wind fill in what her words couldn’t.

Because how do you say me too without shattering a little?

How do you sit on the edge of the world with the one person who’s held your chaos like it was art and not fall even more in love?

Her thumb brushed gently over the back of his hand, slow and rhythmic, grounding them both.

She could still feel his kiss pressed into her scalp. Still feel the way he was holding her like she wasn’t just the girl he loved but the place he rested.

She didn’t need to speak. Not yet.

But eventually—after the silence had stretched long enough to become part of them—she tipped her chin up just enough to look at him.

The sunglasses made it easier. Just a little shield. Just enough armor to let her say what needed saying.

“I want a life full of these,” she murmured. “Moments we don’t have to narrate. Just… feel.”

Her voice caught at the edges. Not with fear, but with certainty. The kind that made her own heartbeat echo like it was answering back.

“I want to remember what peace tastes like. What we taste like, when we’re not trying so hard to survive.”

She reached up then—fingers gentle at the collar of his jacket, tugging him down to her level.

And when she kissed him this time, it wasn’t soft.

It was slow.
Sure.
Steady.

Like a vow.

She let it linger, let it mark the moment. A flag in the ground, a blood-warm signature scrawled across the morning.

When she pulled back, her lips barely brushed his, and she smiled—just a little. Just enough.

“I’m putting this in the slideshow, too.”

And this time?

Blake didn’t laugh.
He just nodded.

Because they both knew—this wasn’t just another photo.
It was a beginning.

And Willa Jameson planned to capture all of it.

Blake stayed perfectly still.

Not because he was afraid to move—but because something about the moment demanded reverence. Like any sudden shift might crack it open too soon, and he wasn’t ready to let it go. Not yet.

She kissed him like a promise.
Like permanence.
Like a song that didn’t need a bridge, just a slow repeat of the same honest line until it sank deep into bone.

And when she pulled back—when she looked at him like that, all mischief and meaning in one glance, claiming this for the slideshow with that quiet, perfect smirk—he didn’t need to say anything clever.

He just let it wreck him. Let her wreck him.

Again.

Because Willa had this way of making even silence feel symphonic. She could sit beside him without a single word, and somehow he’d still feel more seen than he ever did under a thousand lights. And that kiss?

God. That kiss didn’t ask for anything.

It just was.

He looked at her then, really looked—lips kiss-warm, sunglasses crooked from where her hand had pulled him down, hair a wind-struck halo around her face—and thought, There you are.

Not the girl from the stage. Not the myth.

Just Willa.
Here.
Alive.
His.

He brought a hand up to cup her cheek, thumb brushing just below the curve of her sunglasses, the skin warm and flushed from the wind.

“I want that too,” he said, quiet, sure. “A whole life full of this.”

He didn’t clarify what this meant. He didn’t have to.

Because she already knew.
Because she was it.

Then, with a tilt of his head and a ghost of a grin:

“And for the record? When you’re eighty and still making slideshows of us brushing our teeth, I’m framing the worst ones just to balance the narrative.”

He kissed her again, just once—chased the taste of her laugh before it left her mouth.

Then leaned back against the rock, pulling her into him like they had nowhere else to be. No setlist. No noise. Just the sound of the waves and the weight of forever pressing soft between their shoulders.

The sun climbed higher, and the sea kept speaking, and somewhere down the path, the world waited.

But Blake didn’t care.

Because here—with her, with this—he’d already found the part worth staying for.

They stayed like that for a long time.

Tucked into each other beneath the lighthouse, wind carving ribbons through the air, the world slowing down just enough for it all to feel unreal. Willa didn’t speak. Neither did he. Not because there wasn’t anything to say—but because there was, and none of it needed language yet.

She could’ve lived in that stillness forever.

Let her head rest against his chest. Let his thumb draw idle shapes across the bare skin just above her jeans. Let the wind whip her hair into knots and the sea keep roaring like it was doing it for them alone.

But Willa Jameson was not built for forever stillness. Not really. Not when her knee started bouncing. Not when the light shifted just so and the itch to move crawled up her spine like it had been waiting for its cue. Not when the silence started to hum with possibilities instead of peace.

She sat up suddenly, pushing her sunglasses higher and stretching her arms out like a girl who’d been still too long.

“Well,” she declared, twisting to look at him with a mock-serious expression, “if you think I’m carrying your dramatic ass all the way back to the hotel, you better start hydrating now.”

She reached behind her, grabbing his hands and tugging until his arms flopped over her shoulders. She wedged herself between his legs with theatrical effort and hoisted—tried to hoist—his arms around her neck like she could somehow give him a piggyback ride.

It didn’t work. Obviously.

She was 5'2". He was a wall of lanky, inked British chaos with knees that hit the backs of her thighs before she even got upright.

She staggered two steps, legs shaking under the hilariously impossible weight, and made a pained sound through her teeth. “Jesus, Blake,” she wheezed, “you’re like if trauma and a tree had a baby.”

He laughed—full and loud and wrecked—and before she could reposition or bail, he slipped his arms back down, shifted his weight, and—without a word—threw her over his shoulder.

“HEY!”

Her voice hit the wind in a startled, delighted yelp, legs kicking as she thumped lightly against his back, half-laughing, half-scolding.

“Blake Maddox put me down right now or I swear to God I will post that video of you crying during the Pixar short before the movie even started.”

But she was laughing too hard to sound threatening. Her fists pounded once against his back in protest, then just rested there, accepting her fate.

She could feel the deep rumble of his laugh beneath her ribs as he walked with her like it was nothing. Like she didn’t weigh a thing. Like she hadn’t just tried to carry him down a cliff.

When he finally set her down, gentle and smug and grinning like he’d just won something, she barely had time to straighten her sunglasses before he kissed her again. Quick. Soft. Like a punctuation mark at the end of their favorite sentence.

She caught her breath, face flushed from the wind and the laughter, and looped her arm through his as they started walking again—shoulder to shoulder this time. Still close. Still them.

“I’m never letting you forget that,” she muttered, but her smile betrayed her.

And beside her, Blake only reached for her hand.

Didn’t say anything.

He didn’t have to.

Because they weren’t finished.

And with every step back toward the path, the lighthouse fading behind them, Willa knew one thing for certain:

They’d have so many photos.
So many memories.
So many chapters of this beautiful, feral love story that never once asked to be perfect.

Just honest.
Just wild.
Just theirs.

And she was going to carry all of it—every messy, brilliant bit—for the rest of her life.

Even if he had to carry her sometimes, too.

Blake’s grin cracked wide the second she crouched in front of him like she had any business lifting a man who was mostly legs, ink, and leftover stage trauma.

“Are you seriously trying to carry me right now?” he asked, one brow arched so high it practically hit the lighthouse behind them. “Willa, you’re five-two on a good day. You have the wingspan of a very determined possum.”

She grabbed his hands anyway.

“Oh my God, is this revenge for the croissant?” he gasped as she staggered forward, his knees knocking into her thighs, her boots slipping just slightly on the gravel. “This is how I die. Crushed under the weight of ambition and delusion. Tell my band I went out a legend.”

He didn’t resist—mostly because he was too busy laughing. She was actually doing it. For a whole two steps.

“Jesus, you’re stronger than you look,” he wheezed, legs swinging as she grit her teeth and kept moving, “but this is embarrassing—for both of us. Okay. Nope. My turn.”

And before she could protest, he slipped his arms down, pivoted, and in one fluid, practiced motion—hoisted her over his shoulder.

“There.” His voice was smug as hell, hands secure around the backs of her thighs as she shrieked and flailed behind him. “How’s that for dramatic?”

She pounded her fists weakly against his back in protest, boots kicking uselessly in the air.

“You’re light as hell, by the way,” he added, wind cutting past them as he took a few exaggerated strides toward the trail. “Did you eat anything besides pastry today? This is like carrying a caffeinated scarecrow in a band tee.”

She threatened him with emotional blackmail.

“Threaten me with Pixar tears one more time,” he warned, laughter rough in his throat, “and I will spin you in front of a group of tourists.”

He didn’t, though.

He just held her there a moment longer, her laughter caught in his ribs, her breath warm against his spine.

Then he set her down—gentle, careful, smug as hell—and adjusted her sunglasses for her like she hadn’t just tried to backpack a man twice her weight down a cliff.

“That’s what you get for calling me a tree trauma baby,” he said, deadpan. “Still love you, though.”

He kissed her quick—like a reflex, like punctuation—and slipped his hand into hers as they started walking again.

“And yes, I’m carrying you next time, too,” he added casually, brushing a windblown curl from her cheek. “No, you don’t get a say. You already burned your credibility with the Prague van incident.”

She mumbled something about revenge.

“…God, you’re gonna make me cry in every photo, aren’t you?”

She didn’t deny it.

“Fine,” he sighed, eyes glinting as he glanced down at her. “Just make sure you get my good side.”

A pause.
Then, quieter—low, honest, anchored deep:

“I’m gonna remember this forever.”

Another pause.

“Even the part where you tried to break your spine carrying me like some tiny Viking.”

Willa was still catching her breath—more from the laughter than the attempted deadlift—when he said it.

“I’m gonna remember this forever.”

Just like that. No build-up. No dramatic swell of music. Just him. That voice. That look.

And it hit her harder than the wind ever could.

She looked up at him, wind tangling the ends of her hair around her sunglasses, heart doing that stupid flutter thing like she hadn’t already promised herself to him in every way a person could. Her lips parted like she might toss back something sarcastic, something sharp.

But nothing came.

Because all the chaos—the piggyback debacle, the scarecrow insult, the looming threat of public Pixar tears—it all faded under the weight of that single line.

Her fingers tightened around his.

And instead of teasing him, she just bumped his shoulder with hers and said, soft and sure, “Good.”

Another beat. Then, quieter:

“Because I will too.”

They didn’t speak for a while after that.

Just walked.

The lighthouse stood behind them like a sentinel; the sky had gone watercolor-soft with the slow creep of afternoon light. The path stretched ahead, pebbled and half-shadowed, the sea still crashing below like it didn’t know how to stop.

Willa stole glances at him as they walked—how his hair lifted in the breeze, how his smile stayed lazy and a little breathless from all the laughing, how his hand never once loosened in hers.

They weren’t in a hurry.

Because some moments didn’t beg to be rushed.

Some moments were worth carrying for a lifetime. Even the ridiculous ones. Especially the ridiculous ones.

And if Blake Maddox thought he was getting out of being photoshopped into more slideshows because of one emotional lighthouse kiss?

He had no idea what was coming.

Willa grinned to herself, heart thrumming steady, mischief already simmering.

She had a whole future to document.

And she was going to make damn sure it was unforgettable.