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.