Chapter 30: Like Home, Like Forever
The rental cabin was nestled in the Catskills, two hours outside the city. Pine trees framed the windows, birdsong filled the silence, and the Wi-Fi was blessedly weak.
Will had booked it without asking.
Eliza hadn't complained.
He knew better than to call it a getaway. She would've canceled. But he said the truth:
"A long weekend. Just us."
And somehow, that had been enough.
The first night was cold in that mountain-air kind of way — sharp, pure, clean. Eliza wore one of Will's oversized sweaters and thick socks, sipping whiskey by the fire while he fiddled with the old record player.
He dropped the needle.
The soft crackle of vintage jazz filled the room.
She tilted her head. "You brought records?"
He shrugged. "You packed three phone chargers. We all have priorities."
She smirked. "Mine can power a small country."
"Mine can make you dance."
He held out a hand.
She didn't take it right away.
But then she did.
And she let him pull her into a lazy sway in the middle of the room, their feet bare on the old hardwood floor, her cheek brushing against his chest like she'd been there for years.
Not speaking. Not needing to.
Just breathing.
Together.
They didn't leave the cabin the next day.
Not once.
They cooked eggs, spilled flour, kissed against the counter. They argued briefly over board games — Will was too smug when he won, Eliza was a menace when she lost.
She disappeared into a long bath. He read on the couch until her fingers slid into his hair, tugging him wordlessly into the bathroom with her.
The steam clung to the windows. Their bodies tangled in the quiet heat.
That night, she fell asleep on his chest again.
But this time, before sleep took her, she whispered something he hadn't heard before:
"You feel like home."
The third morning, she woke to the sound of rain on the roof and Will making coffee in nothing but a pair of low-slung sweats. She sat up, blinking, wearing nothing but her chain — and the ring that still wasn't on her finger.
He walked back in, mug in hand, eyes soft when he saw her like that.
"You looked peaceful," he said.
She nodded. "I was."
Then she reached for his hand and tugged him back to bed, coffee forgotten.
They made love in silence, the rain tapping rhythm on the windows, their breaths falling into sync.
After, she traced the line of his jaw with her fingertip.
"Do you ever think," she murmured, "that maybe this is it?"
He blinked. "What do you mean?"
"Not the question. Not the ring. Just… this."
He smiled slowly. "I think that's what makes it real."
She leaned up, pressed her lips to his.
And somewhere in the quiet between kisses, she knew:
The proposal wasn't going to come with a big speech or a perfect setting.
It was already happening.
Every morning he made coffee.
Every time she reached for his hand.
Every shared silence, every unlocked door, every lazy Sunday morning that felt like forever.
She wasn't waiting anymore.
She was already home.