Chapter 19

The sunset painted the white walls honey-gold. I stood on my toes, hanging a "Closed" sign on the café's glass door. Sea breeze slipped through, lifting strands of my hair, now long and loosely pinned up, baring my neck.

"Blueberry cheesecake sold out," Oliver called from the kitchen, flour dusting his golden hair. "That lady said it's the best dessert she's had in Shaloria."

I smiled faintly, settling at a window table where an unfinished painting waited—sea blues and whites blending, but something was missing.

"Spacing out again?" Oliver wrapped his arms around me from behind, smelling of cinnamon and coffee. He tapped the canvas. "Needs a boat."

"A boat?"

"Yup, one carrying runaway lovers." His blue eyes sparkled in the dusk. "Like us."

I elbowed him lightly, but he caught my wrist, pulling a crayon from his pocket. He scribbled a wobbly boat with two stick figures in the corner. "Masterpiece by Oliver Green," he declared. "Priceless."

I laughed out loud.

Three years, and I still wasn't much for talking or crowds. But Oliver? He was my exception, a stubborn ray of sunlight piercing the damp corners of my life.

Late that night, he shook me awake. "Bundle up," he whispered, buzzing with excitement. "Gotta show you something."

We drove north in his beat-up pickup, me dozing under a blanket in the passenger seat until he slammed the brakes. "We're here!"

A barren cliff stretched before us, the sea glinting silver under the moon. Above, the sky shimmered.

"Aurora borealis!" Oliver threw his hands up. "News said it might hit northern Shaloria tonight, and—boom!"

Green ribbons danced across the sky. I stared, breath slowing. I never imagined seeing Arctic wonders by the sea.

"Clara."

I turned. Oliver dropped to one knee, holding a ring woven from olive branches. "I don't need you to change. Quiet or laughing, homebody or wanderer—you're you, and that's why I love you. Will you… let me be your exception? The forever kind?"

The sea breeze stilled. I looked at this wolf who'd learned to bake for me, who remembered every quirk, who'd followed me for three years without asking for anything.

I extended my left hand, my ring finger pale in the moonlight. "Put it on."

His hands shook, nearly dropping the ring. When it finally slid on, the aurora flared, like the universe itself was cheering.

[Dominic's out of prison.]

A single comment cut through, then fizzled like a bad radio signal. I blinked, then smiled, letting it go.

I stood on my toes, kissing the wolf I'd spend my life with. Behind us, the last aurora faded, and dawn crept over the horizon.

Three months later, in a rainy London night, Dominic stood by a gallery window, clutching a new art book. The cover showed a sunset sea, a crooked boat in the corner. On the title page, a note: "To my sunshine—thank you for loving the real me."

Summer rain hit hard and fast. Dominic stood by the boardroom's floor-to-ceiling windows, rain blurring the pack skyline. Three years in prison had etched lines at his eyes, sharpening his once-chiseled jaw.

"Here's the equity transfer agreement," his assistant said, sliding papers across. "The board agrees…"

"Got it." Dominic cut her off, his pen scratching across the page.

He left the building without an umbrella, rain soaking his suit. For the first time in three years, he felt light—those cages of wealth and power, he'd torn them down himself.

Following a magazine's address, he wound through whitewashed alleys, coffee scent on the sea breeze. He stopped. There I was, on my toes, wiping the café's chalkboard menu in a simple linen dress, my hair swaying.

A tourist got their order wrong, but I just smiled, the same soft curve in my eyes as when we met at sixteen. Dominic's fingers dug into his palms, an old scar in his chest throbbing.

The glass door swung open. Oliver burst in, flour in his golden hair, wrapping an arm around my waist and kissing me. Sunlight caught the ring on my finger, glinting painfully.

Dominic stepped back, knocking over a flowerpot. I looked up, our eyes meeting.

The breeze stilled.

"I'll be right back," I told Oliver softly, stepping outside toward Dominic.

The salty wind lifted my dress, and he noticed a faint scar on my right knee—from that college day I fell bringing him an umbrella.

"If we could go back…" he started, voice hoarse.

"No ifs," I said quietly. "Time only moves forward."

Oliver called from the alley, holding a bag of groceries. My hair brushed Dominic's fingers as I turned, and he reached out, grasping at air.

I took the bag from Oliver, our fingers lacing, our smiles mirroring. The sunset stretched our shadows long, melting into the alley's end.

Dominic stood rooted until the breeze dried his eyes. The last light sank below the horizon. He turned and walked the other way.

Fading into the distance.