chapter 175

chapter 175
Grace's POV:
The movie had me completely ensnared now.
On screen, the couple stood at opposite ends of a rain-soaked bridge, the heroine's suitcase abandoned at her feet as she finally turned back, as she finally chose love over the fear that had driven her to run.
I felt my heart climbing into my throat because God, they had to make it, they had to find their way through all the misunderstandings and missed connections that had kept them apart for what felt like an eternity of beautiful, torturous cinema.
"Come on," I whispered, barely aware I'd spoken aloud, my nails digging crescents into my palms. "Don't let her go. Don't be stupid."
Maverick shifted behind me, his posture no longer the casual sprawl of someone merely tolerating his girlfriend's taste in romance—he'd gone tense, his breathing shallow in a way that told me he was just as invested as I was, though he'd probably deny it if I called him out.
His thumb traced absent circles on my hip, a nervous gesture I'd come to recognize, and when the male lead finally started running, sprinting across that bridge with desperation carved into every line of his body, I felt Maverick's chest expand against my back as he held his breath right along with me.
They collided in the center, rain streaming down their faces as they kissed with the kind of abandon that made my own lips tingle in sympathy, and the swell of violins matched the sudden lightness in my chest, the relief so profound it left me dizzy.
The screen faded to their wedding, to children and laughter and a life built on the ashes of almost-loss, and I sagged back against Maverick with a shaky exhale that might have been half-laugh, half-sob.
"Thank fuck," Maverick muttered, his voice rough with an emotion he'd never admit to, and when I tilted my head back to look at him, I found his eyes suspiciously bright in the flickering glow of the credits. "Thought for a second there they were going to pull some tragic bullshit ending."
I twisted in his arms, settling more fully against his chest so I could see his face properly, and the corner of his mouth quirked up in that lopsided smile that never failed to make my stomach flip.
"You were worried," I accused, poking his ribs. "You cared what happened to them."
"I cared that you cared," he corrected, catching my hand and pressing a kiss to my knuckles, his gaze holding mine.
"But yeah, maybe a little. Happy endings are—" He paused, searching for words, then shrugged with a self-deprecating huff. "They're nice. Especially when they're earned."
The weight of everything unspoken hung between us—the two years lost, the memories stolen and fought back, the car crash and hospital rooms and all the ways we'd nearly lost each other for good—and I reached up to cup his face, my thumb brushing the sharp line of his cheekbone.
"We'll have that too," he said quietly, fiercely, his hand covering mine. "Our happy ending."
"I know," I whispered, and I did. "We're going to be okay. Better than okay."
He leaned down to kiss me, soft and lingering, and I was just melting into it when my phone alarm shrieked from where I'd left it on the floor, the jarring sound making us both jump.
My eyes flew wide as memory slammed back—shit, the fireworks—and I scrambled to my feet with zero grace, nearly tripping over the blanket in my haste.
"Grace, what—"
"No time!" I grabbed his hand, tugging him upright with more strength than my frame should possess, adrenaline lending me urgency as I dragged him toward the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city. "Come on, come on, we're going to miss it!"
He let me pull him along, confusion and amusement warring on his face, and when we reached the glass, I maneuvered myself behind him, rising on my toes to press my palms over his eyes.
His hands came up instinctively to circle my wrists, not pulling me away but holding me there, and I felt the rumble of his laugh against my chest.
"Baby, what are you doing?"
"Shh," I breathed against the nape of his neck, my lips brushing the sensitive skin there as I checked the clock on the wall—fifteen seconds. "Just trust me. And no peeking."
"Wouldn't dream of it," he murmured, but his thumbs stroked the inside of my wrists, finding my pulse and pressing gently, grounding himself in the rhythm of my heartbeat the way he always did when I was close.
I started counting down, my own anticipation building with each passing second, and when I hit zero, I dropped my hands and stepped to his side, watching his face instead of the sky.
"Okay, now look up."
He did, tilting his head back just as the first rocket screamed into the night, and I watched his expression shift from puzzlement to wonder as it exploded in a shower of gold and crimson, the colors reflecting in his eyes and turning them molten.
More followed in rapid succession—blues and greens and silvers that burst like flowers blooming and dying in the span of heartbeats, each one painting the falling snow with borrowed light, and the muffled crack-boom of the detonations vibrated through the glass, through the floor, through my very bones.
Maverick stood frozen, his chest rising and falling with deep, measured breaths, and in the alternating brightness and shadow cast by the fireworks, I could see his throat work as he swallowed hard.
"Happy birthday!" I said breathlessly, unable to contain the excitement bubbling up in my chest as I bounced on my toes, my hands coming to rest on his shoulders. "It's officially midnight—you're another year older."