Page 115 of Fallen Stars

Mine forever.

“Dinner with my folks? Or just us tonight?” He throws the car in park and cuts the engine.

I love Mama and Papa Moss. They are complete opposites of my parents. Warm and gentle and giving. Open and affectionate and inspirational. Down to earth and accepting and supportive.

I am forever grateful for them. Not only for their generosity and love but also for the remarkable person they brought into the world. The man I get to call mine.

“Will they be upset if we eat alone tonight?”

His basil-green eyes hold mine as he slowly shakes his head. “Never.” A smile softens his expression. “Want me to go snag us dinner from the main kitchen? They won’t mind.”

I will never turn down Mama or Papa Moss’s cooking. “If they won’t mind.”

Oliver squeezes my hand then releases it as he opens his door. “I’ll be up in a moment.”

While he jogs toward the door leading into the main house, I exit the car and slowly make my way up to our apartment. Our sanctuary.

Although it quiets more each day, I still hear the boom in my father’s authoritative voice from a week ago.

“You will not leave this house.”

I didn’t want a confrontation with my family, but anticipated nothing less when I asked Oliver to drive to the estate. The clothes I’d brought to the apartment months ago still had a place in the closet. But I wanted to get the last of my things—clothes, art, notebooks, things from college. Most of it is replaceable, but I didn’t want my parents to have anything to use as a tool to lure me back.

For weeks, my father played the doting, concerned parent role well. Gentle embraces, hushed words, and frequent smiles—they were a juxtaposition to the man I’d known my entire life. It’s said that trauma impacts loved ones as much as victims. With each sentiment and kind act, I believed my abduction changed my father for good.

The moment my courage surfaced, the moment I made a decision he didn’t agree with, he tried to bully me into submission. With one ugly demand from his lips, he not onlymade me feel like a prisoner again, but he also erased every positive ideology I had for him.

One day, years from now, I hope we find even ground.

Jefferson Thornhill-West isn’t a bad man. He just has underlying issues he needs to overcome. At least he and Mom seem more accepting of my relationship with Oliver.

As I plop down on the couch, the door opens and Oliver comes in with a small casserole dish. Garlic and lemon perfume the air, and my stomach growls.

He sets the dish on the kitchen counter. “Linguine and clams.” From the cabinet, he grabs two wide, shallow bowls. “Snagged a chunk of parmesan too.”

Warmth blooms on my skin as I rise from the couch. Eyes on Oliver as he divvies seafood pasta, my heart pounds faster, harder beneath my sternum. He reaches for the grater and the backs of my eyes sting.

My sudden onslaught of emotion isn’t about him catering to me or stealing cheese from his parents’ kitchen. The tears in my vision and swell in my throat are for his attention to detail.

Oliver doesn’t ask me my favorite color or style of music or food dish. He doesn’t need to. For years, Oliver has watched every little thing I do. Same as I do him. Without asking, he learns all the things that matter. He picks up on my pet peeves and preferences.

When you love someone, you commit every little piece of them to memory. You do everything within your power to make them feel seen, heard and adored. You love them without reservation or expectation.

I sidle up to him, lean into him, and drop my head on his shoulder. My eyes roll closed as I inhale deeply.

He rests his head on mine and we stand there, unmoving, for a beat.

Moj zauvjek.

Pressing his lips to my hair, he hums. “Let’s eat.”

I breathe in his leather and musk scent, lift my head, and nod. “I’ll grab drinks.”

Random movie playing on the television, we eat dinner on the couch. When the last of the daylight fades, Oliver reaches for the lamp on the side table and flips it on.

Empty bowls on the table, I give him my weight and rest my head on his shoulder again. He takes my hand, entwines our fingers, and lays his head on mine.

One breath, one heartbeat, one minute at a time, Oliver replaces the darkness with light and warmth and love. For as long as we live, I vow to give him as much, if not more, in return.

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