Page 103 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
Willa
Willa,
You once told me you hated unfinished stories.
So here’s mine:
It’s still you.
It’s always been you.
I just need you to help me write the ending.
-Tate
There’s something sacred about the quiet here. The hush of snow falling outside, the slow crackle from the fireplace, the warmth of Tate beside me beneath the quilt. My cheek presses to his chest, and his fingers trail lazily up and down my arm, suggesting he is in no hurry to start the day, and for once, I am not either.
Cobweb perches on the dresser, tail flicking with judgmental rhythm, as if we’re her favorite soap opera, and the season finale isn’t delivering fast enough.
“She’s watching us again,” I murmur into Tate’s chest.
“Probably wants breakfast,” he mutters, voice gravelly with sleep. “Or a front-row seat to our scandalous display of cuddling.”
I snort and nudge him with my knee under the covers. “Scandalous? We haven’t even gotten to round two yet.”
Tate laughs, then stretches, pulling me tighter to him. His body is all warm muscle and sleepy comfort. If I could bottle this moment and keep it forever, I would.
Eventually, we untangle ourselves and make our way to the kitchen. The windows are rimmed in frost, and the snow outside sparkles like someone dusted the entire world in sugar.
He makes our coffee, and I make the toast, slathered with butter and honey, and we sit on the little bench by the window, knees touching, watching the world slowly wake.
I look over at him, at this man who came back into my life like a shipwreck survivor who still remembered how to swim, and I think:This is what home feels like. With him. He is my home. It’s with him. Wherever he is, that is my home.
Later, we bundle up and head to town. The bookstore is closed today, a rare gift I gave myself, but we still stop by to check things. As we make our way down Main Street to the shop, hand in hand, people call out to us with smiles and laughter.
“Morning, Willa and Tate!”
“Looking cozy, you two!”
“Did Tate finally propose or what?”
We laugh and wave. The snow crunches beneath our boots. The wreaths on the lampposts sway in the breeze. Everything smells like cinnamon, pine, and possibility.
We haven’t talked much about marriage, but we both know this is it. This is what we want, and we have it. Whatever else comes, has time to get here.
Inside the bookstore, the air is warmer, richer. The smell of the cinnamon broom near the door mingles with the evergreengarland I wrapped around the ladder. Warm lamps light up the space, and I swear even the books feel cozier.
I run my fingers across the spines as we pass the romance section. Tate does his usual routine, checks the back for deliveries and fixes anything that needs fixing.
My mom arrives midmorning, wrapped in a plaid shawl, cheeks pink from the cold.
“There’s my favorite bookstore witch,” she says, pulling me into a hug that smells like sandalwood and peppermint. “And my favorite brooding fisherman who finally stopped brooding.”
Tate grins. “I still brood occasionally. In moderation now.”
She hands me a wrapped package. It’s heavy and warm, like it holds secrets.
“What is this?” I ask.
