Page 121 of DFF: Delicate Freakin' Flower

He laughed, full and deep, and kissed the top of my head. “That’s my girl.”

He turned me gently, one hand at my waist, and guided me forward. “Come on, I want to show you something.”

We walked slowly through the house, and I realized with every step that it had been completely redone.

The walls were painted a soft, calming shade of pale sage, and one hallway was lined with framed prints that looked like tattoo art—bold lines, intricate designs, roses, skulls, and mythic creatures brought to life in ink and color. It was a perfectreflection of Webb himself—his skin, his history, everything that made him who he was.

Woven between the tattoo art and the darker, edgier pieces that clearly belonged to Webb were softer elements that caught me off guard—delicate light fixtures casting a warm, golden glow and billowy curtains that danced in the evening breeze through cracked windows. A textured throw was draped over the back of a couch that looked like it'd been chosen for comfort, not just practicality. Everywhere I looked, there were small, thoughtful details—softness and light, subtle color, and calm—that felt unmistakably like me. As if someone had studied all the quiet corners of who I was and tucked them gently into this space, waiting for me to notice.

And it wasn’t just those details on their own. It was the way they sat side by side with the bold, inked art and the rougher textures that screamed him. None of it clashed. It didn’t feel like two worlds smashed together. It felt like harmony and balance. Like home.

Every corner I turned whispered us. Not the version of us shaped by survival and chaos and everything we’d been dragged through. But something more real.

I tried to speak, tried to put the weight of what I was feeling into words, but nothing came out. My throat was tight, my chest full, and all I could do was keep walking forward and drinking it all in with wide, overwhelmed eyes.

Webb didn’t say a word. He didn’t rush me or push for a reaction. He just stayed by my side, close enough that I could feel the heat of him next to me, steady and calm, letting me take it all in. Letting me feel it.

This wasn’t just a house. This was a beginning. A deliberate, thought-out beginning.

And somehow, after everything we’d endured, everything we’d fought through to get to this moment, it felt like exactly the right place to start.

We moved through the house slowly, like we were walking through the pages of a book someone had written just for us. My fingertips skimmed along the edge of a hallway table, tracing the carved wood detail, then down over a framed photo of a pier at sunset. The light here was warm and gentle as if everything had been softened with intention.

Webb hadn’t said much yet, but I could feel the tension rolling off him in subtle waves—his hand brushing mine just a little too carefully and the way he watched me from the corner of his eye when he thought I wasn’t looking.

Finally, when we reached the living room, he cleared his throat and shifted his weight like he was preparing for a fight or maybe a fall.

“This place…” he started, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck. “It’s been mine for years. But until now, it’s just been a place to crash. Dump a bag, sleep a night or two, go back to whatever mess needed handling next.”

I turned toward him, my heart already thudding in anticipation of what he was trying to say.

“I wanted it to be more,” he went on. “Not just a house, but a home. For you. For me. For us. If—” He paused, his jaw working overtime. The fact his words were disjointed was cute as hell. “If you want that.”

The words settled over me like a slow, rising wave, seeping into my skin and curling down my spine. I looked around again, this time with more intention, letting the space truly register. The details I’d skimmed over before now seemed to glow with quiet significance—my old bookshelf tucked beside his, my favorite woven blanket folded neatly over the arm of the couch. And there, on the far wall, hung one of my college paintings—the one I’d created in a storm of anger and bold, chaotic energy. Somehow, against all odds, it belonged here. Just like I did.

“You brought my stuff here,” I pointed out softly, stepping toward the shelf and letting my hand brush over the spine of a worn paperback I hadn’t seen in months.

He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Figured I’d do it now before you changed your mind and burned it all.”

I turned back to him, lips twitching, but I couldn’t let him off the hook just yet.

“And what if I don’t want to live with you?” I asked, tilting my head and watching him carefully.

His jaw twitched again, but he didn’t back down. “Then you can live here anyway while I work on changing your mind.”

My brows rose.

“Gabby, I know what we’ve been through. I know it was chaos and fire and not exactly a fairy tale, but if you don’t want to live with me yet, you can still have this house. It’s safe, it’s yours. And I’ll do whatever it takes to show you we’re meant to be together, even if that means sleeping in the truck until you let me back in.”

I laughed despite myself. “Oh, so you’re going to convince me?”

He stepped closer and brushed a piece of hair from my face. His voice was quiet but confident. “I hope I don’t have to. But if I do... I’ll walk through ice to make you see it.”

I smiled up at him teasingly. “Why not fire?”

He snorted, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Because fire would fuck up my beard. And any man with half a brain and a good beard knows you don’t mess with that.”

That pulled a genuine laugh from me, deep and warm. God, I’d missed this. Missedhim.

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