Page 44 of Until Forever Falls

Miles exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose.“Chloe and me. Last summer.”

Brooks stills, his eyes darkening just enough to be noticeable. He crosses his arms, and I lean forward, searching his face for a reaction. “Brooks, I—”

“I really don’t care enough to deep dive into Chloe’s greatest hits. I’d rather talk about literally anything else. Like leaving. You in, Rivers?”

“Of course.” I wring out a lock of hair, droplets hitting the concrete before I reach for a towel, pulling it closer like armor. “I should probably change first,” I say, shifting toward the house. “Give me a sec.”

“I’ll wait.”

Colt clicks his tongue. “How sweet.”

The downstairs bathroom light hums overhead as I peel away the soaked hoodie, wringing out the excess water before draping it over the shower rod. I grab my dry clothes, shimming into my jeans before pulling the deep purple crop top over my head. The cotton provides a sense of warmth, hugging me like it belongs.

When I step back outside, Brooks is near his truck, absentmindedly tracing slow circles in the dirt with the toe of his shoe. He doesn’t seem impatient, just caught up in whatever’s running through his head.

I tug the shirt down, the fabric slightly clinging to my damp skin. “You ready?”

He lifts his gaze, a smile tugging at his lips as he unlocks the truck. “Yeah. Let’s get out of here.”

I climb in, and as we pull onto the road, the party shrinks behind us. The air slipping through the open window catching the ends of my still wet hair, twisting the curls against my cheek.

Brooks exhales, fingers flexing against the wheel. “Sorry about earlier.”

“For what?”

He keeps his eyes on the road, but his right hand drifts from the steering wheel to the center console, hovering there—like he’s debating reaching for mine. “Chloe. The whole situation.” His fingers tap against the surface, restless. “She’s wrong, you know. Whatever she said isn’t true.”

“She was drinking,” I say, tracing a pattern on my jeans with the tip of my finger. “Alcohol and exes are a dangerous mix. I told you, parties aren’t really my scene. I usually avoid them like the plague. But honestly? I still had a good time.”

“You never went to any back in Wyoming?”

“Not a real one,” I admit. “Maybe a birthday party in middle school, but nothing like that.”

“And yet, you walked in there and won every game like it was nothing,” Brooks says, a coy smile unfurling as he glances at me. His long lashes frame his eyes—dark and unfairly distracting.

“Let’s not act like you didn’t save me with that hoodie.”

Brooks flicks the turn signal on, then shifts left, extending his arm behind me with an innocent stretch. “I don’t know what you mean. I just thought you’d look good in it.”

Absentmindedly, I trace the chain at my throat, my fingertips brushing over the pendant as my gaze lingers on him. In the dim glow of the radio, the freckles on his cheekbones stand out—tiny constellations I want to memorize. His words loop in my mind until I give in, biting the edge of my necklace and exhaling a calming breath against it.

The road bends, narrowing between towering trees, their branches a canopy that turns the night sky into shifting light. Brooks slows the truck before easing off the path, dust rising as tiny stones skitter aside while we break into a clearing. Without looking, he reaches behind him, his hand searching like muscle memory until it lands on what he wants—a heavy wool blanket, its edges frayed from years of use.

The door creaks as I push it open, the cold air slipping around me as I step onto solid ground. Above, the sky is vast, stars flung across it like someone tipped over a jar of glitter.

“Where are we?”

“Washburn Heights,” he says, rounding the truck bed. He gives the blanket a quick shake before smoothing it over the tailgate. “Hop up.”

I follow him, pressing my palms to the cool metal as I push myself up. My legs swing idly over the edge, the town below nothing but a soft glow against the dark.

Balancing on one arm, he inches closer, his pinky looping around mine in a way that feels intentional. “Not many people know about this place. When life feels like too much, this is where I go to remember how to breathe.”

Our small connection is impossibly soft, but I feel it everywhere. “This feels like the kind of place you could sit and dream about anything.”

“Alright, then. If you gave in to those dreams, where would they lead you?”

“Paris,” I breathe, lifting my gaze to the stars. “That will never change. The art, the museums, the Eiffel Tower, it’s timeless. It just feels like a place I’m at least meant to see.”

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