Page 2 of Rewriting the Story

He all but drags me to the kitchen, and just as I’m about to start the coffee maker, he grabs my waist and sets me on top of the counter.

“Put some music on while I dote on you, baby,” he smiles as he takes over.

God, I can’t believe this man is even real. I never saw him coming.

We met at a concert, of all places, and I almost didn't even go. It was an impulsive decision. Maybe Henry and I would have met otherwise, butwho knows? I’m not a big believer in fate, but the stars really did align that day.

One of the bands I love was playing near Grand Mountain over the summer, and since I was by myself on campus taking summer classes, I bought a ticket and went. I didn't know they were playing until the day before, and I’m really glad I saw the post online about it.

It’s strange how different my life could look if I hadn't gone to that concert. Henry was a person I never even knew I needed, but now that I have him, I can’t imagine not knowing him. I can’t imagine being strangers. I don’t really ever want to be.

I tend to mess things up—relationships and life in general. I’m not a person most people would call organized, but I haven't fucked this up yet. Henry seems to still love being around me, so I’m clearly doing something right .

“Oh, I love this song,” he says as he starts to whistle along with it. “I swear, your playlists are always perfect, Mills.”

“That is the highest compliment you could give someone like me, Hen,” I say. I hop off the counter and wrap my arms around him as he flips one of the pancakes he made.

“And I mean it,” he says as he sets the spatula down, spinning to face me. “Can you pour me some coffee?”

“Of course,” I say, knowing just how he likes it—some cream and sugar. I take a sip out of my own mug, taking a deep breath as I peruse Henry’s shelves in his living area. I swear, I could stare at his books forever. They’re organized in his very own way, and most nights, I’m pulling something down to read or skim while he writes.

My mornings never used to be like this, especially when I was a kid. My family and I were never that close, and as I grew up, having meals together became scattered because either Steven had some sort of sporting event, or my parents were busy working—even on the weekends.

I’m not blaming them, but as I’ve grown up, I’ve realized how much I appreciate slow mornings and really taking my time to wake up. With my weird sleep schedule, mornings have always been difficult, and I appreciate how Henry doesn't mind having these slow starts with me. He’s more of a get up and go kind of person, but ever since I told him how I like my mornings to look, he’s been making Sunday’s our go-to day for slowly rising with the sun and taking our time getting up.

“Pancakes are ready,” he tells me as he sets the pancakes on the table, pulling my chair out for me.

The two of us eat, the music filtering through his apartment and filling the spaces between our stares and smirks. Henry keeps glancing at the necklace he bought me hanging from my neck.

“You’re staring again,” I tell him as I take another bite.

“You’re telling me I can’t be in awe at my beautiful girlfriend whenever I want?” Henry jokes. “Then what are we even doing here?”

“Oh, I can leave if you want,” I joke as I start to stand and head for the door. Just before I’m about to reach for the handle, he grabs me, carrying me over his shoulder and throwing me gently onto his couch.

“Amelia.”

“Henry?” I question, noting the look on his face.

“You know if you run, I’ll chase you.” He smirks down at me. “That was a valiant effort, but it looks like you’re stuck with me.”

I sigh, not saying a word as he continues to stare at me, his smirk now a full smile. I cross my arms, pretending to be annoyed but secretly loving how he chases after me. It’s always been known I’m a runner from most things—feelings, relationships, and all that jazz—but Henry has never been afraid of that part of me. He is always the one to remind me I could never run from him—not fully, at least.

I’m stubborn and set in my ways, but he’s never tried to change who I am. He accepts me, flaws and all, and even plays into my stupid jokes.

“You make me really happy, you know,” I beam up at him.

That earns me a head tilt. “What are you saying that for?” he asks as he puts a hand against my forehead. “Are you feeling okay?”

I smack his hand away with a laugh. “I just wanted you to know that, despite all my stupid jokes, I really do love you, Hen. I love these mornings we spend together, and I love stealing books off your shelves at night. I love that you talk my ear off about all the stories you want to write. I loveyou. Forgive me if I don’t say enough how happy I am to be with you.”

I slide up to sit on the couch as he throws his arms around me, flipping me around so I’m in his lap.

He doesn't say a word; rather, he tucks a brown curl behind my ear, his hand coming to my neck before he presses a kiss to my mouth. His other hand grips my hip as he tries to pull me closer.

“We’re not even done with breakfast, Hen,” I say in between kisses.

“Let me enjoy kissing you while I have you like this.”

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