Page 187 of The Pucking Arrangement

“Later, then.” It’s a promise that sends my pulse into overdrive.

I lean back, letting my head rest against the seat, the weight of Ris against my side, the warmth of Dmitri’s gaze.

Two months ago, I believed love was a choice—career or heart, music or family. But here we are, 30,000 feet above the Atlantic, proving that belief wrong with every passing mile.

I glance down at Ris, now dozing against me, then back at Dmitri, who hasn’t looked away.

“I love you,” I whisper, the words still new enough to make my heart stutter.

His smile—soft, unguarded, all mine—is the only answer I need.

* * *

Dmitri

Dubrovnik in July is a fucking postcard come to life.

Medieval walls circle a labyrinth of limestone streets and red-tiled roofs. The Adriatic stretches impossibly blue, meeting a sky so clear it hurts to look at. Everywhere, the scent of salt and sunscreen mingles with lavender and fresh fish, the kind of sensory bombardment that makes even a cynic like me understand why people call this place paradise.

But the real magic? Watching Erin claim this city as her stage.

She’s radiant under the Croatian sun, her skin taking on a golden glow, her hair catching fire in the evening light as she stands on ancient stone platforms, bow moving with such fluid precision it seems to extend from her body. The audience—hundreds of them, packed into a centuries-old courtyard—sit in perfect stillness, utterly captivated.

Ris leans against my side, surprisingly patient for a six-year-old who’s been sitting relatively still for nearly an hour.

“She’s the best one,” she whispers loudly as Erin finishes a particularly complex passage, the sound echoing off stone walls. “Even better than Luka.”

I bite back a laugh. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

But I agree. Erin doesn’t just play—she becomes the music. Her entire body an instrument, her soul poured through her fingers into each note. Tonight it’s Bach, tomorrow Vivaldi, the night after a modern piece composed specifically for the festival. And everywhere she goes, she leaves a trail of awed whispers in her wake.

The piece ends with a flourish, and the crowd erupts. Ris jumps to her feet, clapping wildly.

“THAT’S MY ERIN!” she shouts, loud enough to make nearby audience members turn with indulgent smiles.

My chest tightens at the simple declaration.

My Erin.

Ours.

Afterward, we wind our way through the narrow cobblestone streets toward Marko’s house, the air still warm, the sky velvet-dark. Ris skips ahead, energetic despite the late hour, her laughter echoing off the stone walls.

“Gelato?” she asks, pointing with theatrical hope at a tiny shop still glowing like a promise.

“One scoop,” I say, already resigned to losing this negotiation. “Since you sat so nicely during the concert.”

“Three,” she counters, all shameless grins and gleaming eyes. “I was extra good.”

“Two,” Erin says, taking her hand. “With sprinkles.”

“Deal!” Ris crows, darting inside like she’s just sealed a stock trade.

The past ten days have settled into an easy rhythm I didn’t expect. Erin spends her mornings in rehearsals, her music spilling through ancient stone walls while I sneak in my summer workouts—light, off-season training to keep me sharp without burning out. Ris tags along sometimes, timing my sprints or handing me water like a pint-sized coach. In the afternoons, she heads to the children’s cultural program, giving me a few quiet hours to explore or check in with the team. Evenings are Erin’s again, her performances magnetic, holding court on stages that have seen centuries of music and magic.

And the nights—those belong to us. Once Ris is asleep and the crowds are gone, we carve out a world that’s just ours. Sometimes slow and reverent, sometimes rough with want. Always with that quiet thrum of wonder, like we’re still surprised by how lucky we are.

“She was phenomenal tonight,” Marko says, appearing at my side with two cones in hand, both dripping just slightly under the streetlamp’s glow. One of them is deep and glossy, almost black.

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