Page 23 of New Year in Kentbury
He squeezes my hand gently, his eyes full of something I can’t name but feel all the same. “The child in you was just trying to survive. Afraid he wouldn’t be enough. Nothing and no one had ever loved you enough to make you think that the way you were doing things was wrong.”
I nod, the truth of his words settling somewhere deep inside me. “Yeah. I think . . . I think I held onto that fear because it was all I had left of my mom. If I could just be what I thought she’d want me to be, then maybe I wouldn’t lose her entirely. And I didn’t want to disappoint my dad, either. But . . . honestly, if I had allowed myself to grieve back then, maybe I would’ve left this place and lived my own life.”
Paul tilts his head, studying me. “Is that what you want now?”
I shake my head. “Not anymore. But I’ve warned him and my sister—if they don’t let me run this place the way I see fit, I’m selling my share. I’m done living for them.”
His brow lifts, curiosity mingling with concern. “Why?”
“Because it’s time, Paul.” My voice drops, the conviction in it stronger than it’s ever been. “It’s time to live for myself. To do things that actually bring me joy. For so long, I’ve been carrying everyone else’s expectations, their hopes, their grief. And since you came back, all I’ve been wishing for is more. A life that’s mine. A life with you, if you’ll have me.”
I look at him then, really look at him, and the hope in his eyes mirrors the hope I’m finally allowing myself to feel.
“Of course I’ll have you,” Paul says, his voice cutting through the haze of my uncertainty with a conviction that sears into my skin. “And we’ll buy everyone out of the resort. This is your place, Damian. You deserve to have it—to have the life you couldn’t before.”
His words hang in the air, heavy with the kind of tenderness that pierces deeper than any declaration. His gaze locks onto mine, unwavering and raw, and I feel the strength of his belief in me like a physical force.
“I wish . . .” His voice falters for a moment before he gathers himself again. “I wish we had been ready for this. For us. If I hadn’t been so new to all of it—this, my identity, what it means to share it—I could’ve confronted you sooner. I could’ve helped you instead of standing there while you pushed me away.”
“Please.” My voice breaks. “Don’t take this on yourself?—”
“I’m not.” His response is immediate. “I’m not taking any blame, Damian. I know this wasn’t mine to carry. I’m just saying . . . let’s do better. Together.”
He takes a step closer, his presence all-consuming. His hand lifts to brush against my cheek, his touch achingly gentle, yet charged with a kind of electricity that makes my breath hitch.
“Let’s promise each other,” he continues, his voice softer now, a whisper meant just for me. “From this point forward, we’ll communicate. We’ll be honest, even when it’s hard. We’ll take it slow, learn each other again—every inch, every thought, every secret. But we won’t lose this.”
I nod, the knot in my throat making words impossible. My hand comes up to cover his where it rests against my face, anchoring us in this moment. His eyes search mine, and there’s something unspoken in them, something I can feel as surely as the air between us.
And then he leans in.
The kiss starts as a question, tentative and tender, a quiet exploration of a connection neither of us can deny. But it doesn’t stay that way. It deepens with each passing second, like a spark catching fire, consuming every doubt, every hesitation. His lips move against mine with a desperation that echoes my own, a need that has been building for years, finally breaking free.
I slide my hands up his arms, over the firm lines of his shoulders, pulling him closer. He groans softly, the sound vibrating between us as his hand slides into my hair, tilting my head to deepen the kiss.
It’s not just a kiss—it’s a promise, a searing vow that binds us together in a way that words never could. It speaks of everything we’ve been through and our future. The future we want with one another. There’s hope, there’s love.
There’s us.
When we finally pull apart, our foreheads rest together, breaths mingling in the space between us. His thumb brushes against my cheek. “I love you, Damian Harris. And we’ll figure this out. Together.”
“I love you too, Paul.”
And for the first time in what feels like forever, I believe that this is all going to be okay.
Epilogue
Paul
I wake up slowly.The world feels quiet, suspended in peace. Damian is next to me, his breathing steady and deep, his body warm and solid beneath the soft covers.
I turn my head to look at him. His hair is tousled, and his face is relaxed in sleep, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. He looks so damn beautiful, so at ease. My chest swells with something that feels like gratitude and something deeper, something permanent.
This is home.
The house feels different now, filled with the hum of our lives melding together. It’s not just a place I return to at the end of the day—it’s where we plan our future, where we’ll build the family, we’ve talked about during those long, late-night conversations when neither of us wanted to let go of the moment.
I glance out the window. The barn in the distance looks sturdy and bright, the morning light reflecting off its new coat of paint. Soon, it won’t just be an empty structure waiting to fall apart. It’ll hold life—animals, chaos, laughter. The kind of noise and mess I never thought I’d crave, but now I do. With Damian, I do.
