Page 92 of Forever To Me

The sky is a perfect shade of deep indigo. Stars scatter across it like someone spilled a jar of glitter all over. It reminds me of Walker. He's a mystery just like the night sky, but beautiful, dark, and comforting at the same time.

And here I am on the porch, with my notebook, his guitar, and a heart that finally feels like it has something to say again.

I strum a chord, then another, letting the notes hum into the night.

It feels good.Better than good.

For the first time in a long time, music doesn’t feel like pressure. It doesn’t feel like an expectation.It feels like mine.

My pencil scratches across the paper, the lyrics pouring out faster than I can keep up.

I hum a melody, tweaking it as I go, my foot tapping lightlyagainst the wooden boards of the porch beneath me. The swing creaks as I lean over to my notebook.

And just as I hum the chorus, something shifts in the air.

I feel it before I see it.A presence. I glance up and there he is. Walker leans in the doorway, arms crossed, listening.

Rip’s tail thumps on the floor of the porch, and he tilts his head up when he sees Walker.

He doesn’t move and doesn’t say anything.

I freeze mid-lyric, the last note hanging in the air like an unfinished confession. He just stands there, leaning in the doorway with his broad shoulders, shadowed jaw, and those eyes. The ones that always seem to see through me no matter how hard I try to keep things light.

He watches me with those beautiful, sharp, and unreadable eyes like he’s trying to figure something out.

I playfully narrow my eyes at him. “How long have you been standing there?”

His lips twitch like he’s amused. “Long enough.”

I groan dramatically, tossing my pencil down. “Walker. Creeping is not polite.”

He smirks, stepping onto the porch. “Neither is stopping in the middle of a good song.”

He moves across the wooden boards with that easy, unhurried confidence of his—like the night bends around him instead of the other way around.

And suddenly, the night feels smaller. More intimate.

I strum another soft chord, letting the moment settle.

Then his voice speaks, low and even. “So, what do you plan to do now?”

I glance at him. “With what?”

“With music,” he says, tilting his head toward my notebook. “Now that you don’t have a label taking advantage of you.”

I run my fingers over the strings, letting the question sit in my chest. I know the answer. I’ve known it for a long time.

“I don’t know,” I admit, shrugging slightly. “I just know I was put on this earth to write songs. And music will always be a part of my life, even if it’s just mine.”

His expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in his eyes. Something quiet and knowing. He understands. Somehow, I know he does.

I tap my fingers against my guitar, tilting my head at him. “What about you?”

He frowns slightly. “What about me?”

I arch a brow. “What do you do out at that cabin of yours?”

His shoulders stiffen, just barely. “What do you mean?”

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