Page 155 of Only Mine
“You said nothing lasts. Even bread gets moldy.”
Saint closes his eyes, the regret obvious in the lines of his face.
“Some things last,” he says, opening them again, “if you take care of them.”
The next course arrives, and Ivy eats it with both hands, noodles smearing across her cheeks. I watch her, and I watch Saint, and I realize I want this more than any brand deal or viral video or blue checkmark. I want to sit at this table, in this restaurant, with these two, every single night until the world ends.
I lose track of how many times Saint’s hand finds my knee, or how many times Ivy brings the conversation back to whether I am coming over for breakfast tomorrow, or the nextday, or ever again. She’s as subtle as a sledgehammer, but I don’t mind.
After dessert, which Ivy pronounces “illegal” in its deliciousness, she’s nearly asleep at the table, her head lolling.
We finish, and Saint scoops Ivy into his arms, her dolls tucked into the crook of his elbow. She’s half asleep, blinking in slow motion, content to rest her head on his shoulder while holding out her hand for me. I clasp onto it and follow as he weaves us through the tables.
In the kitchen, the staff see me and erupt into cheers and clapping, the kind of rowdy, unfiltered affection that would have horrified me before. But now, I just smile and duck my head, letting the sound of it soak in while Saint barks at them to shut up or get fired if they wake his daughter.
Outside, the rain has stopped. The air is sharp and clean, and the sky above the parking lot is bruised purple, the moon pressed like a thumbprint through the clouds. Ivy is mostly asleep, but she’s holding on to my hand so tight that I have to walk at an awkward angle to keep pace with Saint’s long strides.
We don’t talk as we load Ivy into her car seat, Saint buckling her in while I brush the hair out of her eyes.
She stirs, blinking up at me.
“Don’t go away,” she mumbles, then drifts off again.
Saint catches my hand as we both straighten. “She’s not the only one who means that.”
He releases my hand only long enough to pull his key ring from his pocket. It’s heavy and battered, and he slides off a single brass key and holds it out to me, palm up.
I stare at it.
The town itself feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting for me to interpret the gesture.
“My house has a heavy security system,” Saint says. “Even if Ivy manages to dodge it every now and again. I think it’s time you had a way in, too.”
His joke is light, but there’s nothing casual about Saint handing over this key, not with Ivy’s sleep-slackened face glowing in the back seat, not with the memory of every time he’s ever shut a door between us.
I lift my gaze to his. “Are you sure?”
Saint’s mouth quirks, but there’s nothing sarcastic about the gesture. “I don’t give these out. You’re the only one.”
I take the key. It’s warm from his hand and heavier than it looks. My throat threatens to close, but I croak out, “I won’t lose it.”
He leans in, close enough that his breath stirs the hair at my temple.
“If you do,” he murmurs, “I’ll give you another. And another. And another.”
“Saint.”
He leans back at my tone, studying my face.
“I need you to know something.” I shift my balance, finding my footing. “I choose this. I choose you.”
His expression shifts from concern to affection.
“Good,” he says simply. “Because I wasn’t planning on making it easy for you to leave again.”
“Is that a threat, Toussaint?”
“It’s a promise.”
