Take Me Back to the Time When We Walked Down the Aisle

by sweeter_than_fiction

Summary:

After returning from Paris, Belly moves in with Conrad in San Francisco while he finishes medical school, marking the next step in their relationship.

When Conrad unexpectedly gets down on one knee, shifting everything in an instant, Belly is left to figure out how she will react and how she will handle her teenage dream of marrying Conrad Fisher finally coming true.

(also just a way for me to cope with all my thoughts while we wait for the movie!)

Chapter 1: Oh God, I'm Gonna Marry Him

Notes:

Every chapter has its own little soundtrack. I tried to choose songs that match the vibe of the show and the mood of each scene. You’re welcome to read without it, of course—the songs are just a fun extra if you want the vibes.

▶️ Now Playing: So American by Olivia Rodrigo

Moving in with Conrad had been a rush—the culmination of so much waiting and so many plans.

The six months between my moving back home from Paris and finally settling into our life felt incredibly fast. It was a hectic period of juggling logistics and job applications, but every decision we made was about building something permanent.

Our life quickly transitioned into a stable, if sometimes exhausting, routine in San Francisco. It involved the constant ritual of the coffee Conrad would brew before our alarms; the strong smell filling the apartment. The cool, damp San Francisco fog became a predictable part of my commute. We were always navigating the busy sidewalks, his hand on the small of my back—a silent reassurance that we were always a team.

After I graduated, Conrad flew to Paris one last time to visit me and help me pack everything up. 

It was a bittersweet week. His presence there felt so final, a wonderful punctuation mark on that whole chapter of my life. 

He spent his days helping me seal boxes, tape them shut, and lug my overstuffed suitcases down the flights of the narrow French stairs. 

He did it all without a single complaint. 

We walked the familiar Parisian streets one last time, holding hands and acknowledging every landmark. 

It was the last time we would have to say a goodbye that involved an ocean.

We flew back to Philadelphia together and spent two weeks there so he could help me finish packing up my childhood bedroom and officially say goodbye to the East Coast. 

Saying goodbye to that room, wallpapered with old memories and teenage hopes, felt strangely liberating.

Once we finally flew to San Francisco, I officially moved into Conrad’s apartment, which was a comfortable place in Palo Alto near Stanford’s campus. 

It was fully furnished, which was a huge relief for me since I had limited funds after Paris. The true miracle, though, was his immediate, unreserved acceptance of my belongings. 

Even though his life was meticulously organized, every medical textbook, every journal, every coffee mug had its designated, stationary place; he willingly condensed all of his sparse clothing and gear into half the dresser drawers and only a third of the main closet in our room, giving up most of his own space without a second thought. 

He just smiled, leaning against the doorframe as I hung up my floral dresses next to his crisp button-downs. 

"It's your space now, Belly. You fill it up." That simple statement felt like the most enormous declaration of commitment.

California felt like a dream, mostly because almost all of my favorite people were suddenly in one zip code. 

Steven and Taylor had gotten married six months ago—just two weeks after I’d touched down in San Francisco. 

Taylor had called me on New Year’s, screeching into the phone that Steven had proposed, while I was still shivering in my Paris apartment. 

The news had given me such a rush of hope; if those two could figure out forever, maybe anyone could.

The wedding was held at a stunning, sun-drenched winery in Napa Valley. 

I was the Maid of Honor, and Steven had chosen both Conrad and Jeremiah to stand beside him as his Best Men.

I was honestly nervous the moment I woke up that day. 

Being around a wedding—the crisp white linen, the emotional toasts, the gravity of forever—brought back a sharp, unexpected pang of what I almost did with Jere. 

The last wedding I was involved in felt like a lifetime ago, steeped in urgency and confusion. I was terrified the day would feel fraught, bringing up old ghosts and making everything awkward between the three of us.

But it didn't.

Conrad saw the flicker of anxiety in my eyes as I finished doing up my Maid of Honor dress. 

He just walked over, his own tuxedo impeccable, and tucked a stray piece of hair behind my ear. 

"It's Steven and Taylor's day, Belly," he murmured, his gaze steady. "We're just here to celebrate. Nothing more. We're good."

And just like that, the air cleared.

We walked down the aisle together during the processional, my arm laced through his. 

He wore a classic tuxedo that made him look like a movie star from the 50s, and every time he looked at me during the ceremony, I felt a familiar, deep flush—a feeling that had nothing to do with the champagne and everything to do with the intense, secure happiness of being next to him. 

Jeremiah stood opposite us, giving me a quick, genuinely happy grin before the officiant began. 

Seeing the two of them side-by-side, totally at ease, was perhaps the greatest gift of the day.

Taylor looked breathtaking in a dress that was somehow both classic and daring, and Steven cried the moment he saw her walking down the aisle. 

Her vows were characteristically hilarious and heartfelt, full of inside jokes and promises. 

Steven's were pure, choked-up emotion, reflecting the years of history they shared. It felt less like the beginning of their life and more like the continuation of everything they had already survived together.

During the reception, Conrad and I sat at the head table, our knees touching under the tablecloth. 

We watched Steven and Taylor dance their first dance, and Conrad leaned in close to my ear, his breath warm and his voice low over the music. 

"They made it."

"Yeah," I whispered back, resting my head on his shoulder. "They really did."

Later that night, after the speeches were done and the lights dimmed, Conrad pulled me onto the dance floor. 

It was a crowded, messy dance floor, but when he held me—tight, possessive, like he was never planning on letting go—it felt like a vow in itself. 

It was the first time in years we had danced without any secrets, without any "what ifs" hanging over our heads. Just us, swaying under the string lights, celebrating someone else's forever while quietly building our own.

Now, settled into daily life, I landed a beginner’s role at a sports psychology firm that specialized in athlete wellness in the city. 

My tasks mainly involved handling administrative work, transcribing confidential session notes, and shadowing senior partners. The sheer responsibility of dealing with real athletes facing mental blocks, from performance anxiety to burnout, felt heavy and exhilarating. 

The commute was long—an hour each way—but I didn’t mind the time alone. 

It gave me space to prepare for the day and decompress on the way home. It was a foot in the door; a tiny step onto the ladder of the career I’d dreamed of since Finch. 

I felt a quiet, grown-up thrill every time I swiped my keycard to enter the polished office building, a private pride in this new, adult life I was building all on my own.

Steven and Taylor lived just a short drive away in a bright, modern apartment in Palo Alto. That was the foundation I didn't know I'd needed. Their presence felt like a built-in safety net. 

Steven’s gaming company, which he’d bafflingly co-founded with Denise, had actually taken off last year, making Steven a surprisingly successful tech bro. I was endlessly proud of my dorky, brilliant brother for that sudden, surprising success.

And Jeremiah was here, too. 

He and Denise moved in together a couple of months before I moved in with Conrad, so the move to California really felt like a fresh start for both of us. The geographical distance from Cousins seemed to have cleared the air in a profound, necessary way.

He had left his old chef position in Boston, hoping to start up his own restaurant in San Francisco centered on globally inspired seafood street food. He was working exhausting hours as a sous chef at a high-end spot in the Mission for now, saving money and absorbing the city’s complex food scene. 

Denise, who was a quick-thinking, intimidatingly sharp coding and business prodigy, split her time between the gaming venture and helping Jere draft a meticulous business plan.

Conrad, meanwhile, was in the absolute thick of his final year at Stanford. Spring graduation couldn't come soon enough. 

His focus was singular, terrifying, and necessary. 

Our life was a comfortable, delicate balance of his chaotic hospital rotations and my 9-to-5, a schedule we clung to like a lifeline, marking time until the final stretch was over.

I was learning the reality of being with a medical student—the exhaustion, the smell of antiseptic that clung to his scrubs even after he showered, the way he sometimes slept for ten hours straight on his rare day off, and I just watched him, feeling fiercely protective.

We'd all try to hang out together as much as possible, mostly on weekends. 

Conrad and I would go on lots of double dates with Steven and Taylor. 

We often went to Giants basketball games, where Steven and Conrad would get fiercely competitive, analyzing every play with their heads together and arguing over obscure statistics, while Taylor and I would share popcorn and quietly exchange gossip from our work weeks, finding our own rhythm amid the stadium noise. 

Then there was Halloween. 

Taylor practically held me hostage until I agreed to attend a party thrown by one of her work colleagues, insisting we coordinate costumes as the undisputed queens of the Upper East Side: Serena and Blair from Gossip Girl. I channeled my inner Blair Waldorf in a structured blazer and the requisite padded headband, while Taylor, effortlessly Serena, rocked the classic school uniform look with a loose, undone tie. 

Even though Steven and Conrad were both swamped that night with their respective jobs, they managed to wrap up early and tag along, unwilling to miss out on the night. 

The apartment was packed, but the second the opening hum of Taylor Swift’s Hey Stephen cut through the noise, Taylor gasped. 

She immediately grabbed Steven by the lapels of his jacket, shouting over the bass to me, "Belly, do you hear that? It’s our song! A Taylor in love with a Stephen!" before dragging a laughing Steven straight into the center of the dance floor.

As Taylor and Steven danced, Conrad and I exchanged an amused glance and hung back, finding a quieter spot near a worn leather bench. 

We sank onto it together, our knees touching, and the roar of the party muffled slightly around us. 

We watched our newly-married friends with matching smiles: Taylor throwing her whole body into the music, dramatically pointing at Steven every time she screamed the lyrics. She was relentless, and Steven was perpetually embarrassed but clearly smitten, trying to keep up with her chaotic energy.

I leaned my head onto Conrad’s shoulder, and he shifted, resting his chin lightly on the top of my headband. 

"I think they're having their moment," he murmured, his voice low and close, just for me.

I tilted my face up to meet his gaze. "And I think we're having ours."

He didn't need to answer. Instead, he simply tightened his arm around my shoulders, anchoring me to him, and placed a slow, comforting kiss right on my forehead, letting the chaos of the night swirl around our own quiet bubble.

On other nights, we'd gravitate toward dive bars near their apartment, places with sticky floors and cheap beer. We’d battle over the pool table, where Taylor remained the reigning, unapologetic champion, always managing to hustle everyone, including a very grumpy Conrad, who took losing a challenge far too personally. 

In those moments—the sound of Taylor laughing, the competitive energy between the boys, the comforting weight of Conrad's hand finding mine under the table—I realized I hadn't just found stability, I'd found a necessary, constant joy I hadn't known I was missing.

To see Jere happy with Denise was the final piece that made everything feel right. 

The fact that the three of us could simply hang out, easily and without tension, felt like a constant small miracle. 

Taylor, Denise, and I had even formed our own, unexpectedly solid trio, bonding over wine nights and the shared, comforting experience of building our new lives in California.

Conrad and I had also created a comfortable, grown-up life for ourselves, while we balanced his schooling and my job. 

We were finally, finally, happy. 

He did live in a state of perpetual, managed stress, fueled by black coffee and the terrifying weight of student rotations and academic responsibility. 

But when he looked at me—when he truly paused his work and held my gaze, I felt a powerful rush of affection. 

He was the fantasy and the reality all at once. He was everything I had waited for.

We'd hang out as often as possible during our free time, but our limited time was devoted entirely to seeking immediate connection. 

On his rare nights off, the proximity was intense, fueled by a deep and desperate need for each other. 

We often skipped the pretense of the couch or TV, collapsing immediately into our bed, where we prioritized the quick, essential comfort of passion and physical release. 

It was the easy, desperate way we still found each other in the dark, a spark that had never faded.

One night, I walked over to Conrad, who was hunched over his laptop at the kitchen bench. 

I slid my arms around his shoulders from behind. He leaned his head back against my stomach instantly, a conditioned reflex, sighing as the tension in his shoulders seemed to melt under my touch. 

I loved that he let me comfort him without ever having to ask.

I looked past him at the wall I’d spent a weekend curating. 

It was our photo wall, a collection of our history, new and old.

A photo of me bundled up with Conrad in Paris, kissing in front of the Eiffel Tower. 

There were group shots from messy double dates with Taylor and Steven. 

There was also one from my college graduation, me beaming in a yellow sundress and Conrad looking unfairly handsome in a deep red polo. 

And tucked subtly behind that one was a Polaroid—a blurry, faded memory from the chaotic party we threw the summer we thought we'd lose the beach house. I hadn't known he kept that Polaroid for years, and discovering he had this small, secret treasure made me fall in love with him even more.

Right in the middle, though, was my absolute favorite photo.

It was a photo of Conrad and Jeremiah at fifteen and sixteen, wearing the ugliest, most glorious Christmas sweaters I had ever seen. 

Susannah had clearly forced them into the twin monstrosities. They were both scowling, trying to look tough, but Jere had his arm slung around Conrad’s neck in a playful headlock, and Conrad was mid eye roll, a tiny, almost invisible smile on his face. 

Conrad hated that I'd framed it.

I loved it. 

It was a snapshot of a time before what was to happen in a couple of years, a testament to the bond that had been bruised, battered, and nearly broken, but had inevitably survived. 

It was a promise that the brothers’ relationship and my relationship with Jeremiah had been mended and were better than ever. 

That photo felt like the center of our whole universe, the proof that complicated love can resolve into something beautiful and strong.

---

"Belly, have you seen my thick knit sweater? The navy one?" Conrad called from the bedroom. The apartment was a mess of open suitcases and discarded clothes.

It was three days before Christmas. We were packing to head East. My mom had insisted we all come home to Philly, but Conrad had surprised me by booking us two extra days, just us, at the Cousins beach house before the family chaos descended. 

I thought nothing of it. We were just going to Cousins, a few days of peace before the rush of the holiday season hit. 

I pictured the cold beach, the smell of salt, and the sound of the ocean that would lull me to sleep, the perfect, quiet prelude to the madness of Christmas.

"I think it's in the bottom drawer!" I called back. 

He was now on the phone in the living room, a last-minute, stressed coordination call with the hospital about securing his schedule after the break.

"I'll find it!" I amended, knowing he was deep into a complex conversation about patient hand-offs and probably wouldn't register my answer. 

I walked into our bedroom and knelt by the dresser, pushing aside a stack of his med school hoodies, smiling at the familiar, faint scent of him—he really, really needed to do laundry before Christmas.

I pulled open the deep bottom drawer. It was a familiar jumble of old T-shirts he never wore, running shorts, and lone socks. 

I was rummaging in the back, pushing aside a faded 'Cousins Beach' shirt I hadn't seen in years. 

My fingers brushed against something small, hard, and fabric-covered. 

It was tucked away in the back, underneath a layer of clothes, almost hidden intentionally.

Curious, I pulled it out.

It was a small, square box. Velvet. Navy blue. The fabric felt rich and heavy under my fingers.

My breath hitched violently in my throat, freezing every muscle in my body. 

The sounds of the city outside, the distant buzz of Conrad’s clinical voice in the living room—it all fell silent. My stomach did a violent, sickening flip that made me feel instantly nauseous, the adrenaline flooding my system. 

Every single moment of the last year flashed through my mind: his focus, the secrecy of the trip, the way he looked at me at Steven and Taylor’s wedding.

I lifted the lid and looked down at the glittering symbol of my past and my future.

It was Susannah's ring.

Chapter 2: When You Know, You Know

Notes:

▶️ Now Playing: Margaret by Lana Del Rey ft. The Bleachers

The lid of the navy velvet box was still open, the light from the small, dusty bedroom bulb catching the diamond's familiar, antique shine. 

It didn't just glitter; it radiated a heavy, inherited light, demanding recognition. 

The box was a connection to a different era, a different kind of love story—Susannah and Adam’s, which had been complicated, long-running, and ultimately fractured by distance and heartbreak, a history I did not want to repeat. 

The velvet itself was worn soft, slightly flattened on the corners from decades spent waiting for the right moment, a silent testament to decades of family history. 

The small, square shape felt like a profound secret in my hands, a dense, weighty object that contained far more than just carbon, a secret too big and too consequential for a mundane Friday afternoon in our apartment.

I didn't let myself look at it for another second. 

The reality of the cold, heavy metal, the history etched into the mounting, and the monumental weight of the family legacy it represented—it was too much, too fast. 

This wasn't just a ring; it was the ring. It was the endpoint of a winding, agonizing road.

Logically, it should have felt terrifyingly fast, too much, too soon. 

But the truth was, all I felt was a tidal wave of dizzying certainty. 

My mind conjured an instant, impossible montage that played at warp speed: a beach proposal, white dress, wedding bells, a future suddenly accelerated past my careful, established timeline. 

The fear wasn't that he wouldn't ask, or even that the moment was premature; it was that this enormous, beautiful leap, while long-awaited, was completely incompatible with the exhausting, delicate stability we had just achieved.

I slammed the lid shut with a soft, final thud that nevertheless sounded deafening in the silence of the room, and I dropped the box back into the deep drawer like it was a live grenade. 

I quickly pushed Conrad’s hoodies and running shorts back over the top, piling a fortress of fabric and forgotten socks, making sure the velvet secret was completely buried and impossible to see. 

I didn't want to know. I couldn't afford to overthink it right now, not with a massive, emotional family trip looming. 

The hope was the most dangerous part—the terrifying realization that I was ready, even if the timing was all wrong.

I scrambled up from the floor, my legs shaky and my breath catching in my chest. 

I felt disoriented. 

My heart was still ricocheting against my ribs, a trapped, frantic pulse that felt audible above the soft drumming of the persistent rain against the windowpane. 

I ran a hand through my hair, aggressively smoothing it down, checking that I looked utterly normal, before practically tiptoeing out of the bedroom and into the living room, where the sound of Conrad’s low, serious voice on the phone was still anchoring the universe outside my crisis.

He was still deep in his coordination call. 

The remnants of his medical school life—a thick, dog-eared textbook open next to his lukewarm mug of black coffee, a laminated patient report detailing a complex case—were spread across the counter like artifacts from another planet. He was utterly consumed by the terrifying gravity of his world: patient care, complex scheduling, and the relentless demands of saving lives. 

He glanced up, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a small, tired smile of acknowledgment, completely oblivious to the silent, three-minute emotional crisis I'd just endured four feet away in our bedroom.

The weight of the secret felt immediately suffocating. 

I couldn't breathe the same air as him; I couldn't risk him reading the electric panic radiating off my skin like a heat shimmer. 

I needed to reset, to find a voice that wasn't spinning out of control. My own phone felt suddenly hot in my hand. 

I needed Taylor. Now.

I retreated to the balcony, pulling the glass door shut behind me with a gentle click. 

The cold, damp San Francisco air, mixed with a thin layer of fog, immediately hit my face, shocking some of the frantic adrenaline out of my system. It smelled like wet concrete and sea air, a sharp contrast to the interior scent of pine and old coffee. 

I fumbled to hit the FaceTime button, barely registering the blurred lights of the neighbors through the persistent drizzle.

Taylor answered immediately. 

She was wearing a thick, oversized 'Stanford' sweatshirt that Steven must have stolen for her, her hair was wrapped in a messy topknot, and her face was bare, all signs of a quiet Friday night in. She was sitting curled up on her sofa with a bottle of wine nearby, looking utterly relaxed.

"Hey! We just finished packing. Steven is downstairs getting dinner," she said, her voice bright. "Wait, what's wrong? You look like you just saw a ghost and then ran five miles. Did you two get into an argument about the utility bill? Because I told you to just let him handle it."

I gripped the phone, trying desperately to slow my rapid, shallow breathing enough to make my voice sound normal and casual. 

"I... I was looking for Conrad’s sweater. We're packing for Cousins, you know, our little buffer trip before Christmas." I watched my own reflection in the glass of the balcony door—eyes too wide, face pale. I knew I wasn't fooling anyone.

"Right. You lucky bastards," she teased, but the easy tone vanished when she saw the raw look on my face. She immediately put her wine glass down. 

"Belly, what did you find?"

My voice was a choked whisper, barely louder than the patter of the rain outside. 

"It's the ring, Tay. Susannah's. I found it in the back of his dresser drawer. I saw it."

Taylor's eyes went wide. 

Her mouth opened, then closed. She started to speak, stopped, and bit her lip, looking vaguely uncomfortable, which immediately confirmed my darkest suspicion. 

Her reaction only fueled my initial panic, and I felt my blood pressure rise with a furious surge of heat.

"You look weird, too," I accused, my voice thin and tight with sudden betrayal. "Did you know about this? Did Conrad tell you something? Did he tell Steven?" 

The idea that everyone else knew I was about to walk into my own proposal, that I was the last person to know, made my stomach twist painfully.

"Whoa, okay, deep breaths. Listen," she said, raising a hand to signal a time-out, her voice firm. "You have to slow down. I know about the ring, but it's not what you think. Belly, you know Conrad inherited the ring from Susannah after she passed, right? Adam gave it to him years ago, like, when he was just starting med school. It's been an heirloom in his possession for ages."

The words hit me with the force of a cold shower, washing away the frantic, immediate future I had just invented. 

He's had it for years. 

It had been tucked away, a relic of his past, not a symbol of my imminent future. 

The blood rushed from my head, and I felt suddenly weak, having to lean against the railing for physical support.

I let out a shaky, pathetic little laugh that was part relief, part self-mockery. The adrenaline drained out of me completely, leaving me feeling hollow and foolish. 

"Right. God, of course. I'm such an idiot. I'm looking in the deep dark of his dresser drawer two days before Christmas. He just keeps his whole life in that drawer. I shouldn't have..."

"No, no, hey," Taylor interrupted sharply, her eyes full of sympathy. "Stop talking. That is not the takeaway here. You got your hopes up because you want it, and that’s okay. That is a completely normal, healthy reaction to seeing that box. But, Belly, seriously. Conrad Fisher will not propose by letting you find the ring tucked under his socks in a messy drawer. That is a catastrophic failure of planning, and that is not his brand," she said, managing to make me laugh a little. 

"He’s the guy who organizes his stress, he’s a planner. He’s gonna get Laurel's blessing, he’s gonna make sure you’re ready for this commitment, he's gonna do it right. He wouldn't risk messing up something that important."

She paused, then added gently, "He knows how much that ring means, not just to the family, but to you. He knows how much you mean. He'd want the moment to be worthy of everything you two fought to get back. Trust him to be thorough. When he asks you, you will know exactly why and when."

Tears pricked at my eyes, not of sadness, but of shame and gratitude for her clarity and her unwavering faith in him. 

"I am ready," I whispered, the confession tasting scary and real. "I am, Taylor. And that's the embarrassing part. It’s only been two years since I broke things off with Jere. I still carry the guilt of the timeline, like I didn't fully honor the past before leaping toward this future." I trailed off, unable to articulate the feeling of rushing past a significant, painful chapter of my life.

Taylor's expression softened, but her voice was firm with conviction. 

"Stop that. You are where you are supposed to be. Your journey is yours, Belly. It's okay that you're ready, because it's right. I told you this two years ago at your bridal shower, and I’ll tell you again. When you know, you know."

The memory hit me, a powerful, emotional flash—me sitting in a silly ribbon bonnet, Taylor giving me advice about Jeremiah and forever. 

I hadn't believed her then. I remember nodding, trying to smile, but knowing subconsciously that I was still hopelessly in love with Conrad and that Jere wasn't my future. 

The phrase had felt like a hollow justification for my own uncertainty, a mantra I tried to force into existence. 

But now, hearing the words, they didn’t feel like a lie or a justification. They felt like the absolute, non-negotiable truth—a silent, deep certainty that had settled in my bones the moment I saw Conrad in Paris for the first time. 

The only timing that mattered was the one in my heart.

"That's the difference, B," Taylor said, as if reading my mind across the continent. "The first time, you were trying to convince yourself you knew. This time, you just do. The fact that you got that level of panic just from seeing the box? That tells you everything you need to know. This is right, Belly," she said, firm and certain.

"This time is right. You and Conrad are the messy, dramatic, frustrating, beautiful exception. You’re soulmates who, through everything, found your way back to one another. It's going to pan out exactly the way it's meant to. Stop trying to find the flaws in your happy ending."

I wiped my eyes and managed a genuine smile, feeling the last pit of panic dissolve. 

"Thanks, Tay. I really, really needed that. You're the best."

"Now go pack and stop rummaging in your man’s socks," she ordered, giving me one last knowing look before we hung up.

I went back inside, the apartment no longer feeling like a pressure cooker, but just our home. 

The chaos of half-packed suitcases and discarded clothes felt normal again, a sign of our shared, ordinary life. 

I calmly finished folding my sweaters and T-shirts for the flight tomorrow, feeling calm and focused. 

Conrad finally hung up, muttering a frustrated curse about scheduling, before rubbing his eyes and collapsing onto the bed with a heavy thud, the entire weight of his profession seeming to fall off him at once. 

He was dead tired.

He pulled me down next to him without a word, burying his face into my hair, his arm wrapping tightly around my waist, pulling me close until the hard angle of his hip pressed into mine. 

The familiar scent of his skin and the lingering black coffee was a powerful, comforting anchor, a physical assurance of his reality.

I snuggled into his side, the moment quiet, safe, and profoundly warm. 

I didn’t worry about the velvet box hidden under the shorts in the dresser. 

I wasn't anxious about a proposal in Cousins. 

I wasn't embarrassed by my readiness anymore. 

I just knew he was here, and I was here, and that quiet, non-negotiable certainty felt like the most profound kind of forever there was. 

I drifted off to sleep, feeling utterly and completely loved, finally ready for whatever came next.

Chapter 3: It's a Love Story, Baby, Just Say "Yes"

Notes:

▶️ Now Playing: Love Story by Taylor Swift

The Christmas Eve flight from San Francisco to Boston was a long, strange blur of suspended time, existing somewhere between the sun-drenched reality we left behind on the West Coast and the heavy, snow-laden history we were flying toward on the East.

After Taylor’s frantic, sobering FaceTime call, I had successfully shoved my panic down, burying it under layers of rationality and sheer willpower. 

I convinced myself with a frantic, internal logic that the ring in the drawer was just an heirloom, not a promise. 

It was a piece of Susannah he kept, like his old 'Stanford' sweatshirts or the faded photos from Cousins Beach that curled at the corners. It was a relic of his past, a sentimental object he was safeguarding. 

It meant nothing... not right now. 

It couldn't mean anything right now, because if it did, I wouldn't be able to breathe.

I settled into the flight, determined to enjoy our quiet getaway, to prove to myself that I was the new, adult Belly who didn't need to spin out over every little thing. 

I had a career. I was not the same girl who waited by the phone, agonizing over the subtext of a text message or into the way he looked at me across the bonfire. 

Conrad, for his part, seemed entirely normal, which only confirmed my forced-upon calm. 

He was his usual, hyper-focused self, meticulously reading a dense medical journal for the first hour, highlighting sections with a yellow marker that squeaked faintly against the page. 

Then, just as the flight attendants dimmed the cabin lights for the red-eye and the plane settled into the long, monotonous rhythm of crossing the continent, his exhaustion finally won out. His reading glasses slipped down his nose, the thick journal slowly closed on his lap, and he fell asleep, his head heavy and warm on my shoulder.

There was no nervousness radiating off him, no secret, tell-tale smiles, no anxious energy humming in his leg or tapping fingers. Just Conrad, profoundly weary and completely present, his breathing deep and even against my neck, his eyelashes casting long shadows on his cheekbones. 

My sharp suspicion cooled, replaced by a wave of profound, slightly foolish relief. 

Taylor was right. It wasn't happening now.

If he were planning to alter the course of our lives in the next forty-eight hours, he wouldn't be drooling slightly on my hoodie. 

We were just going home to Cousins to rest.

I spent the next six hours in that quiet, dark cabin, watching the flight map on the tiny screen creep across the country—inching toward the Atlantic—my head nested comfortably against his. 

I traced the line of his jaw with my eyes, acutely aware of the stable, dependable man he had become. 

The volatile, electric, withholding boy who caused so much beautiful damage was gone, replaced by someone I could finally, truly rest against. 

The peace I felt was a stark contrast to a thousand other journeys I'd taken with him, where my heart was in my throat, wondering which version of him I was going to get. 

This time, the certainty was absolute. I just... felt it. 

And that knowledge was a luxury I had fought hard to earn.

---

We landed at Logan into a blast of arctic Boston air that felt a world away from California’s damp, mild chill. 

It wasn't just cold; it was aggressive, biting at exposed skin the moment we stepped into the jet bridge. It was sharp and clean, smelling of winter and the faint, briny scent of the nearby ocean mixed with jet fuel, and it hit me with a jolt of nostalgia so powerful it almost hurt. 

We collected our bags, the huge luggage carousel whirring monotonously in the mostly empty airport. 

My heart was still beating at a normal, healthy rhythm. 

We were safe. We were just two people coming home for Christmas.

Then, Conrad pointed toward the restrooms, his shoulders stiff as he stretched.

"Hey, I'm going to change out of these sweats before we start the drive," he said, rolling his neck and giving me a tired, charming smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. 

"You should, too. We'll be going straight to the house, might as well try to feel more human."

I paused, my suitcase handle suddenly cold and slick in my hand. 

My blood went completely still, the airport noise fading into a dull roar. 

That was profoundly weird. 

Not just weird, but fundamentally out of character. 

Conrad Fisher had never, in his entire life, cared about "freshening up" for a car ride. 

He was the king of comfy hoodies, the man who had slept in his jeans once after pulling an all-nighter. He was comfortable at all costs. He practically lived in scrubs and old t-shirts around home.

"Oh... okay. Sure," I managed, my voice sounding strained even to my own ears, pitched slightly too high.

My suspicion, which had been peacefully dormant, didn't just flicker; it roared back to life with a vengeance, fueled by adrenaline. 

I went into the women's restroom, my mind racing, echoing off the white tile and polished steel. 

Why would he care what we're wearing? To an empty house? In the dead of winter? Where literally no one will see us? 

I stared at my reflection in the harsh fluorescent mirror, suddenly hyper-aware of my rumpled travel clothes, the static in my hair, and the greasy shine on my forehead. 

Is this happening? Is he trying to make sure I don't get engaged in a stained grey hoodie?

The sheer absurdity of the thought fought violently with the paralyzing terror of rising hope. 

I slowly pulled it out of my carry-on: a pair of dark, fitted jeans, my favorite cream-colored cashmere sweater—the one he always complimented because it brought out the color of my eyes—and my elegant brown leather boots. 

It was warm, comfortable, and, I admitted as I held it up, looked put-together effortlessly.

As I changed, stripping off my travel leggings in the cramped stall, I tried desperately to rationalize.

But my hands were shaking so violently as I took the time to brush my hair, letting it fall neatly over my shoulders, and apply a little makeup—concealer, blush, mascara. 

My heart was starting a slow, nervous drumbeat against my ribs that threatened to wake the entire airport. 

I was staring at myself in the mirror, trying to find the truth in my own eyes. 

I was either getting way ahead of myself, setting myself up for a massive embarrassment, or I was getting ready for my own proposal in a sterile airport bathroom.

When I finally emerged, Conrad was waiting by the rental car kiosk, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. 

He had changed, too. He'd swapped his worn, comfortable hoodie and grey sweats for a dark green, soft-looking button-down shirt—the one with the subtle texture that I loved, the one that made his eyes look intense and deep—and a pair of clean, dark pants. 

He looked impossibly handsome, semi-nice, and intensely clean, his hair slightly damp from splashing water on his face, combed back from his forehead. 

He looked like a man with a plan. And completely, ridiculously out of place for a two-hour drive to an empty beach house.

"Ready?" he asked, and his smile seemed a little too bright, a little too tight at the corners, like a secret he was barely containing behind his teeth.

I managed a tight nod, my throat suddenly dry as sandpaper. 

"You look nice," I whispered, the words feeling heavy.

"So do you," he said, his eyes doing a quick, appreciative sweep that made my stomach flutter with a nervous kind of joy. 

He took my bag, and his hand was so steady and strong, wrapping around the handle with confidence. 

I was the one who was the trembling, emotional mess.

---

The drive started normally enough. Conrad navigated the familiar, chaotic traffic out of the city with his usual focused silence, merging onto the highway with practiced ease. 

But once we were on the highway, heading south toward the Cape, the silence changed texture. 

It wasn't the comfortable, sleepy quiet of our flight; it was a tense, coiled, heavy quiet. The car was filled with the low hum of the heater, the whisper of the tires on the asphalt, and... nothing else. 

No music. Conrad always put on music. Always. He had a playlist for every mood, every drive—The Strokes for energy, Sufjan Stevens for contemplation. 

The absence of it was louder than any song could have been. 

It was a vacuum where my anxiety could expand to fill the space.

He kept his hands locked rigidly on the steering wheel, but his thumbs were restlessly, rhythmically tapping against the leather rim. 

I watched him from the passenger seat, my own anxiety mounting with every passing mile marker. 

He'd clear his throat, open his mouth as if to speak, and then just wouldn't. 

He just kept swallowing, his jaw tight, flexing the muscle near his ear. 

He was nervous. 

Conrad Fisher, the man who handled medical emergencies with terrifying calm, the man who had faced down his own father over the beach house's fate, was visibly, palpably nervous. 

This wasn't his usual thoughtful, brooding silence. This was wire-taut anxiety radiating off him in waves, filling the car.

My own hands were clammy, despite the freezing air blasting against the windows. 

Okay, this is happening. Oh my god, this is happening. 

He was going to do it at the beach house. As soon as we got there. 

Maybe he'd light a bonfire on the beach, despite the snow, reenacting our first real moments. Or maybe in the living room, by the fire. 

I started playing out the entire scene in my head, my heart rate accelerating to match the speed of the car, constructing a perfect, romantic future in my mind, frame by frame.

I was so lost in my internal panic, so busy picturing a proposal by the fireplace, that I didn't realize he'd taken a different exit until the highway signs stopped looking familiar. 

We were driving away from the coast, heading inland, toward the older part of town.

"Conrad?" I asked, my voice small, confused, cutting through the heavy silence. "This... this isn't the way to Cousins. Where are we going?"

He took a deep, shaky breath, finally glancing at me for a long, vulnerable second, breaking his stare with the road. 

His eyes were bright with an emotion I couldn't quite place—it looked like love, but it was sharpened by a memory and weight he was carrying. 

"I know. Do you mind if we make a stop first? At my mom's memorial garden?"

My heart squeezed tight in my chest, and all the frantic, romantic suspicion evaporated instantly, replaced by a wave of pure, aching love and a small, sharp sting of shame for my shallow assumptions. 

"Oh. Of course, Con. Of course, we can." 

The change of clothes. The nerves. The music being off. 

It all made perfect sense now, in a completely different, heartbreaking way. 

He just wanted to be presentable to visit the shelter and his mom's garden. He was nervous because it was emotional. 

It had nothing to do with me, not in the way I'd thought. 

He was visiting Susannah on Christmas Eve. 

I settled back into my seat, a quiet warmth spreading through my chest, feeling foolish for my romantic fantasies.

The garden was quiet and stark in the crisp mid-afternoon winter light, beautifully desolate under the expansive, clear sky. It was beautiful, in a skeletal, honest way, bathed in the pale, sharp light that turned the snow a blinding white. The grass crackled under our feet like glass. 

We walked the familiar stone path, our boots crunching loudly on the frozen gravel, our breath pluming like smoke rings in front of us. 

We reached the bench dedicated to her, the one with the simple bronze plaque that read: In Loving Memory of Susannah Beck Fisher.

Behind it, the dried, paper-like heads of hydrangeas rattled gently, ghostly reminders of the summer's vibrant blue, now a rattling brown in the crisp breeze.

We sat down, and I immediately shivered, the cold seeping through my jeans and cashmere, finding the gaps in my armor. 

Conrad put his arm around me instantly, pulling me against his side. 

Then, he took both of my hands in his, his grip warm and firm, enclosing them completely. 

I felt safer than I had all day, grounded by his touch.

"I had to come here first, Belly," he started, his voice thick, rough with emotion, his gaze locked on the small bronze plaque. "She... she would be so happy right now. So happy to see us here, like this. Finally." He paused, a small, genuine smile curving his lips, softening the tension in his face. 

I could only nod, a tight, sudden ache in my chest. 

He was right. She would be happy. 

Just for this: seeing her boy and her favorite girl together, healthy, and finally at peace. 

She always said, "You'll find your way back to each other eventually." 

He then turned to look at me, his eyes devastatingly clear and holding mine with an intensity that chased away the cold. 

"She’s one of the people who brought us together, Belly. She always knew, even when we were kids, even when I was trying so hard to fight it, to be the person I thought I was supposed to be. She saw... us. She saw the invisible string. She helped us fall in love. She was so special to both of us, and I... I wanted her here for this."

My heart stopped completely. 

This. 

He said "this." 

The word hung in the cold, still air between us, crystalline and perfect. 

My breath caught in my throat. 

This wasn't just a visit. This was the reason for the visit. 

All my shame over my prior assumptions vanished, replaced by a breathtaking, beautiful reality. 

He stood up, his hands still holding mine, and gently pulled me to my feet so that we were standing face-to-face, a mere inch between us. 

He was standing so close I could feel the residual warmth radiating from his chest, could see the tiny flecks of green and gold in his eyes, could see the pulse beating rapidly in the strong column of his neck.

"Our story is messy," he whispered, a small, vulnerable smile playing on his lips, admitting everything we had been through. 

"It's... God, it's so complicated. It has so many sharp edges and misunderstandings, but it's ours. And I've always loved you, Isabel. I think I've loved you since you had your glasses and your pigtails, trying desperately to keep up with Jere and me. I've loved you while I was fighting it, and I've loved you while I was running from it. And I know what it feels like to lose you. I know what that emptiness feels like, that big, hollow-fucking-nothing. I felt it in my dorm room, I felt it at the funeral, I felt it every single day we were apart over the last five years. And I am never, ever going to feel that way again. I am done losing you, Belly. I'm done with the running and the fighting. I choose you, always. I choose us."

This was it. 

The world narrowed to his face, his eyes, the cold air on my cheeks. 

The sounds of the distant road faded into nothing. 

It was just us, in Susannah's quiet, winter garden, the final witness to the promise he was about to make.

He let go of my left hand—the hand he usually held—and reached into his back pocket, his movement deliberate and terrified.

My breath hitched—a small, desperate sound. 

It was the box. The small, square, navy velvet box from his drawer. 

It wasn't an heirloom he'd forgotten about. It was the future he'd been carrying all the way from California, a promise to be delivered here, on Christmas Eve.

He sank, gracefully, onto one knee on the frozen grass beneath him.

The second his knee hit the ground, I brought both of my hands up to cup his face, my thumbs tracing the sharp, familiar lines of his jaw, trying to ground myself in his reality. 

Tears were already streaming down my face, freezing instantly in the cold air. 

He looked up at me, his expression full of a terrifying, beautiful vulnerability, his own eyes wet and shining with unshed emotion. 

He opened the box.

There it was. 

Susannah's ring. 

The antique diamond, glittering impossibly bright in the low winter light. 

It was real. It was meant for me.

"Isabel Susannah Conklin," he said, his voice shaking but strong, full of our shared history and the absolute certainty of our future. 

"Will you marry me?"

I couldn't speak. 

I just nodded, a frantic, tear-soaked movement, unable to verbalize the overwhelming reality. 

All the years of waiting, all the pain, all the doubt, all the summers, all the winters, all the choices—it all resolved into this one, perfect, inevitable moment.

"Yes," I finally whispered, the word a puff of white in the cold air. "Yes."

Chapter 4: I Think It's Strange You Never Knew

Notes:

▶️ Now Playing: Fade Into You by Mazzy Star

The world hadn't just shifted; it had fundamentally tilted. It was like emerging from a long, confusing fever dream into the sharp, high-definition reality of the garden. 

The air was still bitingly cold, a physical shock against my skin that should have been painful, but I was numb to the elements. 

All I could feel, all that existed in the universe, was the encompassing, solid weight of Conrad’s body against mine and the desperate, affirming pressure of his mouth.

Our kiss wasn't frantic or uncertain, not like the stolen moments of our past; it was deep and absolute, a long, soft-focus reel of all the love, hurt, miscommunications, and history that had finally, miraculously delivered us here. 

He tasted like the crisp winter air and smelled like the familiar, warm scent of his clean shirt mixed with the faintest hint of airport coffee and something that was just uniquely him—woodsmoke and sea salt. 

When he finally pulled back, resting his forehead against mine, we were both breathless. 

The sound of our ragged breathing and the distant, rhythmic whisper of the wind rattling through the bushes was the only noise in the universe, an eerie, beautiful soundtrack to our private miracle.

He set me down gently, but my legs felt like water beneath me. 

He was looking at me like I was the most beautiful thing in the world, his eyes dark with residual tears and an overwhelming, gorgeous relief that smoothed out the deep lines of anxiety that had marred his forehead for days.

"I can't believe I finally asked you," he murmured, his voice rough and filled with wonder. 

"It was perfect," I whispered, closing my eyes and leaning into his touch. "The most perfect thing. It couldn't have been anywhere else. She was here with us. I felt her."

He took a careful step back, creating a sliver of space but refusing to let go of my hand. 

He gently lifted my left hand into the pale, slanting late-day light, examining it like it was a rare artifact.

"I need to do this right," he said, his voice reverent. 

He slipped the ring onto my finger, a delicate, weightless moment that made my breath hitch. The square-cut diamond, set in silver, caught the last weak sliver of the winter sun, scattering miniature rainbows across our joined hands.

"It always would belong to you, Belly," he told me, his eyes full of the kind of quiet, enduring love that makes promises for hundreds of years, not just for summers. 

"It was my mom's, and she loved you, truly. She always felt you were family, long before I was smart enough to realize it myself."

It wasn't just an inherited diamond; it was Susannah’s blessing from beyond, her explicit inclusion of me in their legacy. 

It was the complete, messy, beautiful history of our two families, finally merging into something whole and unbroken. 

I turned my hand, watching the diamond flash, already feeling the permanent, anchoring weight of the promise—a promise made not just to him, but to everyone we loved, living and gone.

We sat back down on the bench together. 

We didn't need to speak. We just sat there, knees touching, hands intertwined—my left hand now resting prominently on his thigh—stealing soft, easy kisses that tasted of happy tears and relief.

Every time he shifted, the stone glinted, demanding my attention. 

After a long, perfect silence, Conrad sighed, the sound contented but practical. 

"Okay," he murmured, pressing his cheek against the top of my head. "It's getting dark, and I'm pretty sure we're going to freeze solid to this bench if we stay much longer. We need to get to Cousins before the last of the light is gone." 

I squeezed his hand in agreement.

Tonight was for warmth, firelight, and the familiar, comforting walls of the beach house.

We walked back to the car, our hips brushing with every step, our movements synchronized. 

The air felt lighter, the world outside the garden no longer hostile or freezing, but crisp and clarifying. 

We had a secret now, a perfect, glittering secret that shielded us from the rest of the world.

---

We drove away from the garden, leaving the silent, snowy hydrangeas behind in the gathering dusk. 

The highway felt like a golden, private tunnel where only we existed. The windows had a low mist of condensation on the edges, sealing us in the warm, humming air of the heater. 

I sat close to Conrad, my left hand resting in his right hand over the center console as he drove.

He kept his eyes mostly on the road, navigating the familiar curves with one hand, but every few minutes, he’d lift our joined hands and gently kiss the diamond, then my knuckles, as if he still couldn't believe it was there. 

The nervous, wire-taut tension that had followed us for days was completely obliterated; he was relaxed, settled, and completely and utterly present, humming softly under his breath to the quiet song on the radio.

"You know," I said softly, breaking the comfortable silence as we merged on the highway toward the coast, "I really thought you were just exhausted on the plane. You were out cold. I was staring at you, thinking about how peaceful you looked."

Conrad let out a low, self-deprecating laugh, squeezing my hand tight. 

"Belly, I wasn't tired. I was absolutely terrified. I honestly didn't think I could sit next to you for six hours in that tiny seat without blurting it out. I forced myself to sleep. It was the only way to shut my brain off and stop myself from ruining the surprise."

"And the medical journal?" I teased, poking his side gently.

"A total prop," he admitted without shame, glancing at me with a boyish grin that lit up the darkening car. "I read the same paragraph about endocrinology fourteen times. I didn't absorb a single word. I was just using it as a distraction from my nerves. I figured if I looked busy and boring and studious, I wouldn't accidentally propose over the in-flight pretzels."

I laughed, the sound bubbling up freely and filling the car. 

"Well, it worked. You fooled me completely. I thought you were just being Dr. Conrad."

"Good," he said, bringing my hand to his lips again, lingering there. 

"Because I wanted this to be exactly right. You deserved for it to be right."

Every detail, no matter how small, was suddenly significant, illuminated by the golden light of the promise we had just made.

"Are you happy, Belly?" he asked again, his voice dropping an octave, his eyes briefly meeting mine. 

He didn't ask with doubt, but with a simple, profound curiosity, as if he needed the verbal confirmation to cement the reality that this miracle was actually ours to keep.

I looked down at the ring, catching the reflection of the passing streetlights in the stone, then back up at the man who was now my fiancé. 

The word felt immense and perfect, a vast space of possibility opening before us. 

"Conrad," I said, my voice full and clear, echoing in the small space. 

"I am the happiest I have ever been in my entire life."

---

We finally pulled up the drive to the Cousins house. 

It stood cold and silent in the fading light, looking like a beloved ghost waiting for us to breathe life back into it. 

While I went around turning on the lights, bringing pools of gold to the dark living room, and chasing away the shadows, Conrad expertly set about building a fire in the fieldstone fireplace. 

The familiar scraping of the kindling and the scent of woodsmoke was the truest sense of homecoming I could imagine—the cold, empty house gradually yielding to warmth and life, piece by piece.

Soon, the room was filled with a comforting, roaring heat and a flickering, dancing light that cast long shadows on the walls. 

It was officially Christmas Eve. 

We curled up together on the old, familiar couch, my head resting on his chest, listening to the crackle of the wood, and prepared ourselves for the chaos of the FaceTime rounds.

My mom and dad answered together on the second ring, their faces filling the screen. 

They were sitting close on the couch, both in pajamas, looking cozy and a little concerned.

"Belly? Everything okay, honey? Are you at the house?" My mom asked, her voice soft and measured.

I took a deep breath, the giddy excitement bubbling up again, and spoke before she could ask anything else. "I'm great, Mom. We just got to Cousins. I was going to wait until we saw you in person, but I just... I couldn't. I had to show you."

I held up my left hand. The diamond caught the firelight and flashed a thousand times in the camera lens.

My dad’s face broke into a wide, quiet smile first. 

My mom looked at the ring, her expression settling into one of profound, calm joy, not shock. She gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, her gaze steady, maintaining her gentle composure.

"Isabel," she finally said, her voice thick with emotion but still soft-spoken. "It’s beautiful, Bean. Just beautiful."

My dad leaned into the screen. "About time, Conrad."

I looked from my dad's face to my mom's, a sense of awe washing over me that I was the last to know. 

"Wait," I gasped, laughing. "Did… did you guys know about this? Did you know he was going to ask?"

Conrad, who had been watching nervously, laughed easily now. 

"A little bit," he admitted, squeezing my shoulder. "Remember when I told you I was flying to Philadelphia for a two-day medical conference last month?"

My mom smiled, a genuine, private smile. "He asked us out for dinner one night at that fancy Italian place near the harbor. Connie asked for our blessing, the old-fashioned way, very formally. So we’ve been waiting... patiently since." 

I felt a ridiculous wave of warmth and love for Conrad; it was so like him to be so traditional and thoughtful behind the scenes, and I found it incredibly charming.

My mom's gaze settled on the ring. 

"I knew Beck always wanted that on your hand." She leaned closer to the camera, her smile warm and slightly teary. 

"She always saw this, Belly. She always knew."

We talked some more with them about our plans for the holiday week, the weather in Philly, and what kind of pie my mom planned to bake, before we said our goodnights and ended the call.

Next up was Steven and Taylor. 

Since our parents were still awake, I figured Steven and Taylor—who had just arrived in Philadelphia—would be up. 

Conrad scrolled through his contacts, and Steven answered immediately, though he didn't look thrilled.

"What's up, you two? It's literally a fire hazard the way you're cuddling that close to the fireplace," Steven grumbled, the camera shaking as he adjusted it. 

He was propped up on his side in his old childhood bed. 

Next to him, Taylor's face popped into view, looking cozy under the covers and instantly suspicious.

Taylor’s eyes instantly narrowed before her suspicion evaporated, replaced by frantic, knowing excitement. 

"Wait. Show me your hand right now, Belly! He did it! Didn't he?"

I held up my left hand to the camera.

"HOLY F—" Taylor shrieked, instantly launching herself into a sitting position. 

She snatched the phone from Steven’s stunned grasp, holding it close to her face, examining the ring with an intensity that only she could manage. 

"Oh, my God, Belly. Oh. My. God. It’s perfect. It’s absolutely everything. Tell me you told your parents! Did they freak out? You should have called me first!"

"I just got off the phone with them," I said, still grinning, my eyes wide with sudden realization. "Tay, you so knew about this, and you let me panic! You told me yesterday not to worry when you knew the whole time, didn’t you!

Taylor just laughed. She tossed her blonde hair. 

"Did I know? B, I was the co-producer! Yes, I lied. I knew the whole plan because Con came to me weeks ago begging for help. He wanted it to be in the garden, and I helped him."

I lowered the phone slightly, speaking quietly so only Conrad, right next to me, could hear my side of the conversation. 

"You had a whole plan?" I whispered to him, my voice thick with emotion, half-teasing, half-awe. 

A soft heat rose in my cheeks, mirrored by the gentle blush that spread across Conrad's neck and jawline as he tried to stifle his laughter.

Steven finally recovered, leaning back into the frame. 

"Yeah, I knew, too. He called me. Said he wanted to make sure he was doing right by you. Like a gentleman." 

Steven grinned, and for once, the annoying older brother act completely failed. His eyes were genuinely shining with warmth. "Welcome to the family, Connie. Now you get to officially deal with my sister for the rest of your life."

"I accept the challenge," Conrad said, leaning into the camera and giving Steven a firm nod, his face still warm with a lingering blush.

My heart was bursting. 

Knowing all these people I loved had been quietly protecting this secret and supporting us made the engagement feel even more meaningful. 

I focused back on Taylor, my best friend since childhood, the person who had been through all the messy chapters of my life.

"Taylor," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "I have something really important to ask you."

Taylor instantly softened, sensing the seriousness of the moment. "Yeah, B?"

"Will you be my Maid of Honor?"

Taylor didn't even pause. 

"Duh. Try to stop me. Now send me photos of the ring in better light and tell me everything. Every detail. Steven, you're on mute. I need to talk to my sister-in-law in peace."

We spent the next twenty minutes dissolving into happy chaos, Taylor shouting wedding planning ideas, Steven pretending to groan dramatically, and Conrad just watching, looking calm and proud.

After hanging up with my brother and best friend, the joyful excitement gave way to a quiet, heavy tension again. 

There was one more crucial call.

"Jeremiah," I whispered, the name feeling like a delicate glass thing in my throat.

Conrad’s expression sobered immediately, his smile fading into a focused concern. 

He took the phone from me and pressed Jere’s number. 

We watched it ring, once, twice, three times... straight to voicemail. 

The sound of the generic recording felt like a heavy silence in the cozy living room, a stark reminder of the world outside our perfect bubble and the complexities we couldn't outrun.

"He's probably busy," I said quickly, trying to dismiss the disappointment, though it felt like a familiar pattern of avoidance. 

This was the one call that felt most important, and the one that failed.

Conrad dialed again. 

Same thing. Voicemail.

I sighed, slumping against the couch, the moment of perfection now subtly tarnished by the knowledge that the news hadn't been received by the one person whom we both deeply love.

Conrad pulled me into his side, kissing the top of my head, seeing the distress in my eyes. 

"Hey. It's okay, Belly. Don't worry about it. I actually... I already told him all about it. He already knows."

My head snapped up. "What? When? What did he say, exactly?"

"I told him last week. Before we left. I thought he should hear it from me first, just out of respect, you know? After everything," Conrad said, his gaze steady, honest. 

"He was... he was chill about it. Honestly. He wasn't, you know, throwing a party, but he wasn't angry either. He just said, 'Cool, man. 'Bout time you stopped messing around.' I think he means it. He's just busy, Belly. He and Denise are probably deep in restaurant planning and getting ready for the holiday rush. He’ll call back. Give him a second. He's okay, I promise. He has to be."

I nodded, letting myself be convinced, leaning into the comfort of his certainty and the solidity of his shoulder. The slight chill from Jere's silence was already fading.

"Okay," I said, finally letting out the breath I had been holding. "I'm starving. And seeing as I just got engaged, I think I get to pick dinner tonight. And I chose pizza."

"Hold on a second," Conrad countered, trying to look stern. "We're both engaged, which means I still get a vote. And I vote for the healthy option of grilled chicken and quinoa. You need your protein."

I lightly punched his arm. 

"Absolutely not. This is a monumental occasion. It requires optimal celebratory food. There's a frozen cheese pizza left in the freezer from summer. My brain has been running on pure adrenaline and romance, and it needs a reward."

"Frozen pizza over my grilled chicken?" he deadpanned, pulling a mournful face.

"Yes, and I choose frozen pizza over your bland chicken every day," I shot back.

He let out a short, surprised laugh. 

"This is the first major conflict of our engagement, Belly. I guess we're going to need a neutral third party for all future food decisions."

"Consult all you want, Conrad," I said, getting up and heading toward the kitchen. 

"It's too late, the 'Supreme with Extra Cheese' is already in the freezer. If you really need a vegetable, you can order a side salad for yourself." 

I glanced at him, a cheeky grin on my face.

He sighed dramatically, but his eyes were laughing. 

"Fine. You win. But you have to promise me you'll eat a piece of broccoli tomorrow."

"Deal," I said, running over to him and giving him a quick kiss. "Pizza it is."

The wait for the pizza to cook was a perfect distraction; the cheesy aroma began to fill the quiet house.

---

After dinner, we settled back onto the old, familiar couch, the fire now a deep, glowing core of heat, the wood settling with soft, intimate pops. 

The living room was quiet again, bathed in the dancing orange glow, smelling deliciously of woodsmoke and melted cheese. 

Conrad had his arm tight around my waist, his thumb tracing the denim of my jeans.

"I'm still freezing," I said softly, my voice just above a murmur. 

It was true, but it was also an invitation. 

The cold of the winter air felt like an excuse to seek out his warmth.

He shifted, turning fully toward me, his expression darkening with that familiar heat that always melted away the last of my nerves. 

He gently brushed the hair away from my cheek. 

"We can work on that," he promised, his voice low and raspy.

As I nestled into him, my hand came to rest on his chest, fingers splaying over the steady thump of his heart. 

There it was again—the glint of my ring in the firelight, the cool metal pressing lightly against his shirt. 

It sent a thrill through me, a reminder of the promise we'd just made, binding us in ways that felt both new and eternal. 

I traced the edge of the band with my thumb, marveling at how it looked against his warmth, how it symbolized everything we'd fought for.

Conrad's hand cupped my cheek, tilting my face up to his. 

His kiss started gentle, lips brushing mine with a tenderness that spoke of the day's emotions. 

But as I sighed into it, parting my lips, the gentleness deepened. 

His tongue slipped past, and I melted against him, my body awakening to the familiar pull between us. 

My free hand slid up to tangle in his hair, the ring catching on a strand, tugging lightly. 

I smiled against his mouth, the sensation grounding me in this moment.

He pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark with desire. 

"Belly," he breathed, his voice rougher now, laced with need. 

His fingers trailed down my neck, sending shivers that had nothing to do with the cold. 

I arched into his touch, wanting more, always more with him. 

"You're everything," he added, and the words wrapped around my heart as surely as his arms did my body.

I shifted in his lap, straddling him without breaking eye contact, the blanket falling away forgotten. 

My hands framed his face, thumbs brushing his jaw as I kissed him again, deeper this time, pouring all the joy and heat of the day into it. 

Conrad's hands roamed my back, slipping under my sweater to caress the bare skin there. 

His palms were warm, calloused from years of summer beach days, and they ignited sparks along my spine. 

I gasped as he tugged the sweater up and over my head, tossing it aside. 

The fire's warmth kissed my exposed skin, but it was his gaze that truly heated me, raking over the lace of my bra with undisguised hunger.

Leaning forward, I pressed my chest to his, feeling the rapid beat of his heart through his shirt. 

My fingers worked at the buttons, slow and deliberate, revealing inches of his chest. 

Each undone button brought my ring into view again, the metal cool against the heat of his skin as I pushed the fabric open. 

I traced the lines of his muscles, from collarbone to abdomen, the ring leaving faint imprints like temporary tattoos of our commitment.

He groaned softly, his hands unhooking my bra with practiced ease. 

The lace fell away, and his mouth was on me immediately, lips closing over one peak, tongue swirling in a way that made my breath hitch. 

I arched back, hands bracing on his shoulders. 

Waves of pleasure radiated from his touch, building slowly, intimately, as if we had all the time in the world now that we were promised forever.

"Conrad," I whispered, my voice trembling with the intensity. 

I rocked against him, feeling him pressing up through his pants, hard and insistent. The friction sent jolts through me, my body responding with a deep, aching need. 

His hands gripped my hips, guiding my movements, but I wanted control, wanted to savor this.

I slid down from his lap just enough to unbutton his pants.

The ring caught the zipper as I pulled it down, a tiny snag that made me pause and smile—even in undressing him, it was part of us. 

I wrapped my hand around his length, stroking slowly. His head fell back against the couch, a low moan escaping his lips, and the sound fueled my own desire.

But he wasn't content to let me lead entirely. 

In a swift motion, he lifted me, laying me back against the cushions. 

The fire's glow danced over us as he hovered above, shedding his shirt and pants fully until we were both bare, vulnerable in the best way. 

His eyes locked on mine, filled with love and lust, as he settled between my thighs. 

"I want to feel you," he murmured, his hand sliding down my side, fingers teasing the sensitive skin of my inner thigh.

I nodded, breathless, reaching for him. 

As he entered me, slow and deliberate, I cried out softly, the fullness of him stretching me in that perfect, overwhelming way. 

My hands clutched his back, nails digging in, the ring pressing into his skin like a brand. 

We moved together, unhurried at first, savoring the connection. 

His hips rolled against mine, deep and rhythmic, building a fire within me that rivaled the one in the hearth. 

I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper. 

Each time my fingers trailed down his spine or gripped his arms, the ring sparkled, catching the light, reminding me of the vows we'd yet to speak but already lived.

The pace quickened as pleasure coiled tighter.

Conrad's mouth found mine again, kisses turning fervent, tongues tangling as our bodies synced. 

Sweat glistened on his skin, and I pressed a kiss to his neck, tasting salt and him.

His hand slipped between us, fingers circling that bundle of nerves, drawing gasps from me. 

"Yes," I moaned, my hips bucking to meet his.

He shifted, angling just right, hitting that spot inside that made stars burst behind my eyelids. 

I clung to him as I fisted my hand in his hair. 

The world narrowed to us—the slide of skin on skin, the sounds of our joining, the shared breaths and whispers of endearments.

Tension built, a wave cresting higher with every thrust. 

Conrad's movements grew more urgent, his grip on my thigh bruising in the best way. 

"Belly," he groaned, burying his face in my neck, teeth grazing my pulse. 

I shattered first, pleasure crashing over me in shuddering waves, my body clenching around him. 

He followed moments later, spilling into me with a muffled cry, his body trembling against mine.

We stayed like that, entwined and spent, the fire popping softly as our breaths evened. 

My hand rested on his chest, nestled against his heart.

In that moment, with the glow of embers and the weight of his body over mine, the future felt as tangible as the diamond on my finger—full of warmth, love, and endless nights like this.

Chapter 5: I'll Give You All My Presents, Boy, I'm for You

Notes:

▶️ Now Playing: Not Just on Christmas by Ariana Grande

Waking up on Christmas morning felt different this year. 

It wasn't just the quality of the light filtering through the blinds—a brilliant, clean luminescence that was amplified by the fresh, thick layer of snow that had fallen overnight to coat the entire world in white. It was an internal shift. 

The difference was the sudden, brilliant flash of silver on my hand when I reached for my phone to check the time. 

I stared at it for a long, quiet moment, the square-cut diamond catching a stray sunbeam and fracturing it into a spectrum of color against the white sheets. It looked both foreign and entirely inevitable on my finger. 

Fiancée. 

It was the promise of a future I had always subconsciously craved, now tangible and glittering on my skin, a quiet, non-negotiable fact.

We were in Conrad's room. This space, with its baby blue walls and filled with old sports trophies, had held the deepest, most unattainable mysteries of my adolescence—the place where the older, brooding Conrad lived, where the proof of his complicated, grown-up life was occasionally sheltered, and where I had always desperately wanted to be allowed access.

Being here now, waking up as his fiancée, felt like the ultimate, quiet fulfillment of a teenage fantasy, a domestic victory where I was finally the one he chose to wake up next to, in the most private space of all.

I blinked the sleep away, squinting at the screen. 

There was a notification sitting at the top of my lock screen: a voice message from Jeremiah. 

It was timestamped at 3:00 AM East Coast time—midnight for him. 

My stomach gave a small, reflexive squeeze of anxiety, the ghost of old conflicts rising up before I could squash them. 

The silence from the night before had been a tiny, jagged crack in our perfect evening, and I had gone to sleep with a knot of worry that we had broken something fragile by moving forward without his immediate reaction. 

It wasn't that I needed his permission, but I needed his peace. I hated the thought of achieving my happiness at the cost of his.

Jeremiah: "Hey, Bells. Sorry, I missed the call. We were deep in a rabbit hole looking at restaurant leases in the Mission and lost track of time, but Steven filled me in. I’m really happy for you guys. Seriously. It makes sense. Love you both. Merry Christmas."

I listened to it twice. Then a third time, dissecting every word for hidden resentment or sarcasm. 

I found none. 

The phrase "It makes sense" was the ultimate absolution. 

It wasn’t a capitulation; it was an acceptance of reality, a calm understanding of the narrative that had always been written. The past was acknowledged, accepted, and finally laid to rest. 

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, my shoulders physically relaxing against the mattress as a weight I hadn't realized I was carrying—the weight of past guilt and divided loyalties—finally evaporated. 

There was no subtext, no hidden hurt waiting to spring a trap. 

He was busy building his own dream, just like we were building ours, pouring his passion into restaurant layouts and menus in San Francisco. 

He was okay. We were okay. 

The triangle was finally, officially, a line, stretching out into different, parallel futures that didn't have to intersect in pain anymore. It was a clean break, and the relief was intoxicating.

"Mmm, what is it?" Conrad mumbled into the back of my hair, his voice thick with sleep and rough with morning grit. 

He tightened his grip on me, pulling me back against the warmth of his chest as if sensing my profound shift in mood, his nose nuzzling the nape of my neck. 

"It's Jere," I whispered, turning in his arms to face him. 

He looked soft and unguarded in the morning light, his hair a chaotic mess against the pillow, the sleep lines creasing his cheek in a way that made my heart ache with affection. 

"He left a message. He was looking at leases for the restaurant, that’s why he missed us. He said he’s really happy for us. He said... he said it makes sense."

Conrad opened one eye, peering at me groggily before a slow, genuine smile spread across his face, the kind that transformed his entire expression from distant to devoted. 

It reached his eyes, clearing away the last shadow of worry he’d been carrying about his brother's reaction. 

"See? I told you. He’s good. He's moving forward. We’re all good." He closed his eyes again, pulling me tighter. 

"Merry Christmas, Belly."

"Merry Christmas, Conrad." 

And for the first time in forever, I fully believed it without a single reservation. The past was finally just the past, a history we shared, not a burden we carried.

For the next hour, we were suspended in the perfect Christmas morning haze, kissing lazily, sinking back into the soft pillows and the cocoon of the thick duvet. 

The only thing I was wearing was one of his old, thin t-shirts—the one I had quickly pulled on right after our spontaneous Christmas Eve intimacy by the fire, just before we stumbled upstairs.

I rolled onto him, pushing myself up slightly. My arms were kept tight around his neck, and the t-shirt I was wearing rode up my thighs. 

His sleepy eyes tracked my movement, and his hands came up instantly, palms settling low, cupping my ass, anchoring me firmly to his body. The warmth of his touch through the thin cotton was immediate and intense, a familiar ignition of desire that threatened to push our morning into something much more complicated than a lazy kiss. 

He just looked up at me, his gaze heavy and utterly devoted, and I knew if I stayed, we wouldn't get up for hours.

We finally dragged ourselves out of bed, the wooden floors cold under our feet. 

We rebuilt the fire with fresh logs until it roared, sending the comforting scent of pine and smoke through the drafty house. 

It felt intimate and quiet, just the two of us—the rest of the world muffled by the heavy blanket of snow outside. 

The only sign of the celebration was the small pile of gifts under the meager, sparsely decorated tree.

We exchanged gifts sitting on the rug, the fire casting dancing shadows. The crackling wood and the soft whir of the wind outside were the soundtrack. 

I gave Conrad a first edition of a collection of T.S. Eliot poetry, Susannah, and my mom used to force us kids to quote—a book he had lost years ago during a move and never replaced. 

He ran his hands over the worn, fabric cover, the edges softened by time, his eyes wide with surprise, clearly touched that I had remembered such a small detail from so long ago.

"This is impossible," he murmured, his voice husky. "I haven't seen this since sophomore year. Where did you even look?"

"Every online rare book dealer for the last six months," I confessed, shrugging off the effort. 

It was a validation of all those late-night talks we’d shared, the intellectual connection that had deepened our childhood friendship into something lasting and complex. It was proof that he had been seen, even when he felt invisible.

Then, he handed me a heavy, rectangular box wrapped in simple brown paper. 

I tore it open to reveal a vintage film camera—a classic model I’d been eyeing for months on eBay but hadn't bought. 

The beautiful metal body and the weight of the old glass felt perfect in my hands; it was renowned for its specific, timeless aesthetic and the soulful quality it gave to images.

"Conrad," I gasped, lifting it carefully from the foam, feeling the cold weight of the metal and glass. "How did you know? I never told you about this specific one. You must have tracked my search history."

"You kept talking about the quality of the older film versus digital, and how much you loved the ritual of developing your own film," he said, a genuine laugh escaping him. "And yes, I noticed you looking at the listing on my laptop three weeks ago when you were borrowing it."

It was perfect—not just a gift, but a profound statement. 

"I can't wait to see what you capture, and I can't wait for us to use this to start documenting every single adventure and stupid, mundane Tuesday we have together, from now until forever," he finished, leaning in to kiss the top of my head.

---

By the afternoon, the snow was coming down harder, thick and fast, turning the entire environment into a legitimate snow globe. The dunes were hidden under mountainous drifts, and the ocean was a churning grey expanse beyond the white. 

We stayed inside, curled up on the rug with mugs of intensely rich hot chocolate, watching the flakes swirl and cling against the doors. 

The silence was heavy and sweet, filled only by the crackle of the wood, the occasional hum of the refrigerator, and the sure, steady rhythm of our own hearts beating together.

"So," Conrad said, breaking the comfortable silence as he stared into the fire, the orange light reflecting in his pensive eyes.

He reached out, tracing the line of my engagement ring with his finger, a habit he’d seemingly developed overnight. 

He seemed fascinated by it, by the fact that it was actually there, a physical realization of our destiny. 

"I’ve been thinking about the dates. Hypothetically."

"Hypothetically?" I teased, leaning my head on his shoulder, watching the flames reflect in his dark eyes.

"Well, I graduate next spring," he started, his tone turning practical, his medical-student brain engaging with the logistics and scheduling. "And then there’s a pretty significant gap before residency starts in December. About eight months of actual freedom, where I'm not studying or working 80-hour weeks. That window... it exists, and it's rare." 

He paused, his hand stilling on mine, and his voice dropped, becoming serious and careful. 

"But I don't want to push you, Belly. I know... I know the last time you planned a wedding, it was a lot. It was fast. It was stressful, and that wasn't fair to you."

He took a deep breath, meeting my gaze. 

"If you want a long engagement, years, whatever it takes, to breathe and just be 'us,' living in the same city without the pressure of residency looming, I am completely fine with that. I just want you. The timeline doesn't matter to me as long as the end result is the same."

I looked up at him, seeing the genuine concern and caution in his eyes. 

He was terrified of repeating history, of making me feel rushed or pressured. 

But the difference between then and now was profound. 

Back then, the rush was the only thing holding us together; we were running toward a wedding to escape our problems. 

This time, we were just walking toward a marriage because we were ready. There was no fear, only excitement and a quiet, immovable certainty that had been building since we were kids.

"Conrad," I said, sitting up to look him fully in the face, taking his hands in mine. 

"I don't want to wait a year. I don't want a long engagement. I've waited my whole life for this version of you, for this moment of absolute clarity, where there are no secrets or conditions. I want to be married to you now." I smiled, feeling that same dizzying, absolute certainty I’d felt on the plane. 

"I want a summer wedding, Con. That gap you have is exactly what we need. It gives us two months of us time. A honeymoon, a chance to actually settle into being husband and wife, learn the rhythms of married life, and just be normal before residency swallows you whole. And I want to keep it simple. Really simple. No massive production, no nonsense, no country club expectations. Just us and the family."

The tension left his shoulders instantly, his body relaxing into the rug as he exhaled a long, grateful breath. 

He let out a soft laugh of relief, the sound warm and genuine. "Summer," he repeated, testing the words, savoring the sound of their future. "A June wedding?"

"A June wedding," I confirmed, sealing it with a kiss. A long, slow kiss that tasted like hot chocolate and smelled like woodsmoke.

---

That night, after a dinner of slightly burnt lasagna—a joint culinary effort that involved a flour fight and ended with more sauce on the counter than in the pan—and too many Christmas cookies, the snow finally slowed to a gentle, cinematic drift. 

The moon broke through the heavy clouds, illuminating the white world outside with an ethereal, silvery glow.

"Come on," Conrad said, standing up abruptly and pulling on his heavy wool coat. "Put your boots on. We're going out."

"It's freezing out there!" I protested, though I was already reaching for my scarf. "It's literally a blizzard that just ended."

"Trust me," he urged, his eyes sparkling with anticipation. 

We bundled up in layers of wool, looking like overstuffed marshmallows, and stepped out of the mudroom. 

The cold was bracing, a sharp slap against our cheeks, but the beauty of the beach at night, covered in a pristine sheet of white snow under the moonlight, was otherworldly. 

The entire world felt scrubbed clean, hushed, and completely ours.

We walked down the dunes, our boots crunching loudly in the silence, leaving the only footprints in the sand. 

When we reached the flat surface, near where the tide line usually hit, Conrad stopped and turned to me. 

There was no music, just the rhythmic, crashing percussion of the waves and the soft, constant whistle of the wind coming off the water.

He held out his hand, his eyes shining in the dark. "Dance with me."

I laughed, my breath puffing out in a white cloud between us. "Conrad, there's no music. And we're wearing fifty pounds of clothing. We look ridiculous."

"We don't need music," he said softly, stepping closer.

I took his gloved hand, and he pulled me close, his other hand settling on my waist, bulky coat and all. 

We swayed there in the dark, on the snowy sand, moving to a rhythm only we could hear. 

I could feel the intense cold pressing in, but inside the circle of his arms, the warmth was absolute.

It hit me then—the memory of another Christmas, years ago. 

We had come to this house alone, escaping the noise of our families, stealing a moment of adulthood before we were ready for it. 

We had run around together on the snowy beach, playing games with one another, and later, we had slept together for the first time by the fireplace, fumbling and sweet and so incredibly young. 

Our love had been fragile then, easily broken by misunderstandings and fear.

"You remember?" he asked, his cheek pressed against my cold temple, his voice vibrating through me.

"The last time we were on a snowy beach together," I whispered, closing my eyes against the snow. "I was sixteen. I didn't know what I was doing, but you did. I remember how you guided me, how careful you were, like I was a delicate doll you might break. We may have never said the words then, but we knew we loved each other."

"I loved you then," he murmured into the cold air, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "I loved you so much it scared me. It felt like standing on a cliff edge, knowing one wrong move would send us both tumbling. But I also love you now. Because now I know you. I know the woman you are, the kind and stubborn person I rely on. Not just the girl I grew up with. And she's even better, Belly. She's strong, she's driven, and she's my world."

He pulled back just enough to look at my face, the moonlight carving shadows across his features, and for a long moment, we just stood still, the world spinning in silent white around us. 

I saw the entire story of us reflected in his eyes: the summer flirtations, the quiet comfort, the agonizing pain, the eventual certainty, all leading here.

We danced until our toes were numb and our noses were bright red, spinning slowly under the vast winter sky. 

It was our first winter together at Cousins, where the frantic urgency of time dissolved, leaving behind a profound stillness—the quiet, immovable realization that we had finally stopped running.

And as the snow began to fall again, dusting our eyelashes and our shoulders like the softest confetti, I knew there was nowhere else in the world I belonged but right here, in the cold, with him, facing our inevitable June, and I couldn't be more ready.

Chapter 6: And All of This Snow Is Falling, I Can Make You Fall Too

Notes:

▶️ Now Playing: Santa Doesn't Know You Like I Do by Sabrina Carpenter

I keep the letters in a vintage, round, mint-green hat box, tied with a massive satin bow, that I found at a flea market in the Marais during my first lonely month in the city. It sits on the top shelf of our closet now, tucked securely behind extra linens. 

It’s an essential, hidden archive of our history that feels almost too private to display.

Sometimes, when the world outside—whether it's the roar of San Francisco traffic or the quiet stress of our adult lives—feels too loud, too complicated, or I need a tangible reminder of how far we’ve come, I pull it down. I sit cross-legged on the floor, the light catching the dust motes, and read through all of them.

The pages are starting to soften and fray at the edges, worn smooth from how many times I’ve unfolded and refolded them, tracing the blue ink with my fingertips as if I could magically feel his pulse in the strokes of the words. 

Conrad’s handwriting—spiky, rushed, sometimes barely legible when he was scribbling late at night—covers every inch of the pages. 

They aren’t love letters in the traditional, flowery sense; there are no sonnets or grand pronouncements. They don't speak of eternal flames or use poetic metaphors about the moon. They are letters of existence, of endurance. 

He wrote about the painfully awkward Christmas he spent with my mom, my dad, Steven, and Adam, revealing that Jeremiah didn’t end up coming. 

He wrote that he missed Junior Mint, the polar bear, and seriously—sarcastically—suggested that the bear was sad I’d left him behind. 

He wrote about working on biochem and how my mom told him I was hunting down Sour Patch Kids in Paris, then teased me about it.

He admitted in one of his last letters before our reunion, with the usual dose of self-deprecation and honesty I love, that I was pretty much all he thought about all the time.

They were the mundane, desperate map of how we found our way back to each other across an ocean, proving that we were thinking of each other in the quiet, in-between moments of our days when we were supposed to be busy living entirely separate lives.

The letter I've pulled out is one of the first he wrote after we finally got back together, dated December 15th—just days before he was set to come to Paris. 

He started sending them again only after I drunkenly admitted over a late-night FaceTime call that I desperately missed the old anticipation of waiting for a letter from him, the weight of his thoughts arriving in my mailbox. 

It was written on college-ruled paper, the edges rough, suggesting he ripped it right out of a notebook, a beautiful, anxious jumble of affection and exhaustion:

Dear Belly,

I’m sorry this is late. I'm operating on two hours of sleep and pure stubbornness right now, but I needed to write this down. I need Paris.

The persistent dampness here in Palo Alto is getting to me. I’m doing rounds and studying for finals, and even the palm trees look tired from the rain. 

The only thing that breaks up the monotony is your face on the screen when we manage to talk. It's the only thing I look forward to. You know, you said you missed the letters, but I think I miss the feeling of writing them more. It makes you feel closer, even if it only shows up two weeks late.

I got my flight confirmation. I’ll be landing around 8:00 PM on Christmas Eve, just in time to pretend I’m a charming guest instead of a desperate college burnout who just spent every cent of his savings on a ticket to see his girlfriend. I’ve been going over the directions to your apartment in my head for a week. 

I need to hold you, Belly. I need to know you’re real and not just a pixelated image on my laptop screen.

I love you. I can’t wait to see you for the first time in forever. Just a few more days.

Love, Conrad

---

Paris, Last Christmas:

It had been six agonizing months since I’d seen him. 

Six months of falling asleep with the phone on the pillow, the screen glowing against my cheek, just to feel like he was there in the empty space beside me. 

The longing had become a physical ache, a constant low-grade fever.

Conrad arrived late on Christmas Eve, looking utterly exhausted, pale beneath the harsh fluorescent bulb of the landing, but triumphant. 

He had blown his meager student savings on a ridiculously expensive, last-minute ticket, refusing to let me spend the holiday alone. 

When the buzzer finally rang, I nearly tripped over my own feet running to the intercom. 

I waited at the open door, listening to the heavy thud-thud of his boots as he climbed up the flights of narrow, winding stairs.

When he finally appeared on the landing, breathing hard, his hair a mess from the flight, I felt my heart, which had been on pause for months, finally restart. 

He dropped his bag with a heavy, final thud and pulled me into a hug that knocked the wind out of me, burying his cold nose in my neck and breathing me in like oxygen. 

After a long, silent moment, he pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark with fatigue but shimmering with relief. 

"I made it," he rasped, his voice rough. 

"You did," I whispered back, completely choked up, and before I could say anything else, he leaned down and kissed me right there in the doorway—a hard, desperate kiss that tasted like plane recycled air and desperation, a perfect, real-life echo of the urgency in his letter.

I helped him take his bag and dropped it into my apartment. 

He didn't have much—mostly books, a small toiletry bag, and a thick pile of clothes. He was also carrying two present boxes, which he quickly shoved into my closet, making sure I didn't peek at what they were.

He immediately went to the window, pulling back the curtain to look out at the dark Paris street, taking a deep, restorative breath. 

"Feels weird to be out of the Bay Area," he admitted, then gave a weak smile. "But a good weird."

"Go shower. Get the plane off you," I told him, already having grabbed him a fresh towel.

While the sound of the shower started up—a low, rhythmic drumming from the tiny bathroom—I moved over to his bag. 

Folded right on top were my traditional Christmas pajamas: soft, worn red flannel with white accents. He must have gone all the way back to the summer house just to retrieve them, to ensure I had a piece of tradition with me in Paris. 

The sheer thoughtfulness of the gesture made my throat tighten.

I quickly discarded the cardigan and jeans I was wearing and slipped the familiar pajamas on.

When he emerged from the bathroom, steam trailing behind him, he was wearing just a towel slung low around his hips, his body still slick with water, and his hair dark and wet. 

I felt my cheeks instantly flush a deep red and quickly looked away, suddenly shy in the confined space. He looked less frantic now, just profoundly tired, but incredibly beautiful.

"God, it's hot in here, Belly," he muttered, running a hand through his damp hair. "Is your heater cranked?"

"It’s winter in Paris, Conrad," I defended, feeling the heat rise in my face. "It's freezing outside."

He shook his head, a slight smile on his lips as he rummaged in his bag again, pulling out his pajama bottoms. He put them on, the plaid material a stark contrast to his wet skin, but left his chest bare. 

His eyes found me, dressed in the matching flannel red set, and a soft, genuine smile finally settled on his face, erasing the travel exhaustion.

"You found them," he murmured, his gaze warm. "I knew you couldn't have Christmas without them."

"Thank you," I said.

He crossed the small room and kissed me softly, pulling me into a loose hug. 

"Belly, I'm so tired," he sighed against my shoulder, the damp weight of his hair pressing against my neck.

"I know," I murmured, rubbing my cheek against his bare shoulder. "You're going to fall asleep standing up. Come on."

I led him toward the small, turned-down bed. 

He didn't need to be asked twice, sinking onto the mattress and pulling me down with him. 

I settled into the bed, and he immediately rolled toward me, pulling me until my back was pressed flush against his chest, tucking the duvet securely around both of us. His arm was heavy and warm over my waist.

It was a knowing, mutual decision for no intimacy that night. 

The flight, the time difference, the sheer weight of six months apart—it had exhausted us both. I didn't want passion; I wanted the tangible reality of him, his heartbeat against my spine, the steady breath of him being home.

I closed my eyes, safe in the bubble of his presence, listening to the steady, deep rhythm of his breathing, and finally fell asleep. 

I didn't stir again until morning.

---

Christmas morning broke with the specific, slate-gray light of Paris in winter and the distant sound of church bells peeling across the arrondissement. 

We woke up slowly, limbs tangled, warmth radiating between us. 

We murmured "Merry Christmas" against each other’s lips, neither of us wanting to break the spell of the morning. 

We started kissing, a slow, lazy rediscovery of each other's mouths, the heat rising as his hand slid under the flannel top, his fingers warm against my skin... until reality crashed in.

I pulled back, breathless and flushed, the remnants of the French braid I'd put in yesterday now messy and escaping across my face.

"Wait," I said, panic spiking as I checked my phone on the bedside table. "We have, like, ten minutes. Gemma, Max, Celine, and Benito are coming over for coffee and croissants."

Conrad groaned, burying his face in the crook of my neck, refusing to move. 

"Why do you have so many friends? And why are they morning people? Can't we pretend we're not home?"

"Get up," I laughed, shoving his shoulder, "They know you're here. They've been dying to see the American boy I won't shut up about again. If we don't answer, Gemma will use her old key, which she still has."

He scrambled up, realizing he was shirtless. He quickly pulled on a thick, dark, knit sweater—the one my mom had given him last year—just as the buzzer rang again, followed by a loud, impatient knock.

My friends burst through the door in a flurry of colorful scarves, cold air, and loud French greetings that filled the tiny apartment instantly. 

"Joyeux Noël, chérie!" Gemma shouted, tossing a paper bag of fresh, buttery pastries onto the table. Max was trailing her, looking slightly more reserved but carrying a bottle of champagne.

Benito, ever the artist and never without his equipment, immediately had his vintage film camera up to his face, the dark lens an extension of his intense gaze. 

He snapped a photo before we could even say hello or fix our hair—Conrad and I sitting upright in bed, messy-haired and sleepy-eyed, me in the red pajamas, him in the knit sweater, clutching a mug of black coffee like a lifeline against the social onslaught.

Conrad leaned in, his mouth close to my ear. "And look who else is here," he murmured under his breath, tilting his head pointedly toward Benito. I smothered a giggle against his shoulder.

"Joyeux Noël, Isabel, Conrad!" Gemma said, waving, Max echoing the sentiment. 

"Hey, guys," I called from the bed, Conrad giving them all a charming smile and nod.

Celine, standing by the foot of the bed, grinned wickedly at Gemma and murmured quickly in French, "Il semblerait qu'ils n'aient pas perdu de temps pour rattraper leur retard!"(It would seem that they wasted no time in catching up.)

Gemma and Max immediately burst into laughter. 

I just shook my head, laughing softly to myself, and didn't dare translate the wicked comment.

Conrad blinked at them, completely lost, a slight frown touching his mouth. 

"What did she say?" he muttered to me.

Still confused by the sudden French outburst, Conrad used the diversion to recover and reached down to pull the small, slightly squashed stuffed polar bear from where it sat nestled between us on the duvet.

"Junior Mint!" I shrieked, clapping my hands.

Conrad set the bear between us on the messy sheets, smoothing its fur. 

"I remember that day at the boardwalk like it was yesterday," he said quietly, just loud enough for me to hear over the chatter of my friends. "That ring toss game took all my pocket money, remember? My dad was ready to kill me. Said I was wasting my allowance on junk."

I nodded, the memory crystal clear.

He smiled, a deep, genuine smile that crinkled the corner of his eyes. "Took every penny I had, but I got him."

"Okay, present time!" Celine announced, clapping her hands, pulling the focus from the bear.

Conrad quickly stood up, his movements still clumsy from jet lag, and moved towards my closet where he had hidden his travel bag. 

Benito, however, kept his camera trained on me—but my eyes were all on Conrad.

He pulled out the large box he'd shoved there upon arrival. 

He walked back to the bed and held it out to me.

I took the box, my friends surrounding the small table, watching us. 

It wasn't heavy, but it was wide. 

I reached inside and felt something thick, soft, and impossibly oversized. 

I pulled out a dark cardinal-red sweatshirt, the kind that was worn and soft, with the bold 'STANFORD' logo stitched across the chest in white block letters.

I burst out laughing, a genuine, joyful sound that came from deep in my chest. 

"No way!" I giggled, holding it up. 

It was easily a size L or XL, massive on my frame, just the way I liked to steal and wear his clothes. "You replaced my 'Brown' one!"

Conrad just smiled as I pulled the soft sweatshirt closer to my face. 

"You needed an upgrade. And you know you'd just steal all my Stanford gear eventually anyway, so I figured I'd save us both the trouble."

"And now I have one from every school you've ever attended," I teased, feeling incredibly warm and loved. 

My friends didn't understand the significance, but they understood the happiness radiating off me. 

Benito just smiled and clicked his camera once more, capturing me mid-giggle.

"Let's get this party started, mes amis!" Celine declared, clearing space on my tiny bistro table by sweeping away the stack of my textbooks and a pile of Metro tickets.

I finally moved from the bed, pulling myself off the mattress and finding one of the two folding chairs I owned.

I picked up Junior Mint and placed him gingerly on the other empty folding chair by us, his black sunglasses surveying the scene. Conrad giggled, reaching out to gently adjust the bear's head.

As I sat down, Conrad pulled up the other chair and leaned in. 

I immediately lifted my legs, crossing them over his lap and resting my feet near his hip, letting him serve as my personal footrest. He automatically placed a warm hand on my ankle, a familiar, steadying weight.

A flurry of wrapping paper and French appreciation started as my friends exchanged their gifts, offering a brief, cheerful distraction.

Conrad then took the smaller, rectangular box from the floor next to his chair and placed it carefully on the table between us.

"Okay. The hoodie was just the warm-up," he said, tapping the box. 

I crossed the small distance to climb straight onto his lap. His hands instantly settled on my hips and waist, grounding me in place. 

I picked up the box, my friends momentarily silent, watching.

Inside lay a delicate silver bracelet, inset with tiny, lustrous real pearls. It was exquisite, sophisticated, and clearly expensive—a piece of jewelry for a woman, not a girl. 

My breath hitched, and my mouth opened. 

It was the exact bracelet I’d told Taylor about that I saw in the window of an ancient jeweler's shop on Rue Saint-Honoré weeks ago.

I stared at him, the weight of his sacrifices suddenly overwhelming. 

My eyes widened, a clear, silent, no, you didn't spend this much money on me look that held both deep love and immediate, worried reproach. "The bracelet... from the window? But how?"

He shook his head, a proud smile spreading across his tired face. 

"Taylor sent me the link to the shop's website after you told her about it. Said you wouldn't shut up about it. I called them immediately. They had to ship it to me in Palo Alto, and then I packed it and flew it here."

I loved that Taylor had been my accomplice, and I loved that he had been listening, even from thousands of miles away.

"I love it," I whispered, touching the cold silver and pearls. "It's beautiful. You didn't have to."

I reached up, cupping his cheek with my right hand. 

"Wait here," I said, as I quickly slid off his lap and darted over to my bed, kneeling down to fish out a small box hidden underneath.

When I came back, I ushered him up from his chair. "Your turn," I teased, pulling him down gently onto my lap. 

I was smaller, but he sat easily, his weight warm and comforting, his arms circling my waist automatically.

I handed him the box. 

Inside was a heavy, polished brass nautical compass I’d found at a quirky antique market in Montmartre, tucked inside a worn, dark leather case.

"This is incredible, Belly," he murmured, running his thumb over the cool brass. "Seriously, thank you. I love it."

"Something to guide you," I whispered, resting my head against his chest. "No matter where you are, you'll always know which way is North. And it reminds me of the sea."

He held it for a long, silent moment, his expression soft with gratitude and understanding. 

"Thank you," he said again, the words quiet and sincere. 

He looked down at me, his eyes full of love, a soft, profound gratitude spreading across his face. 

I leaned in quickly and gave him a huge, spontaneous squeeze from my side. 

Conrad lifted the box in his hands above his head, Benito's camera clicking instantly, capturing the moment right in the middle of our chaotic, friend-filled Christmas morning.

---

We spent the rest of the morning drinking too much strong coffee, the air thick with lingering warmth and paper scraps, before heading out to a late Christmas lunch at a beautiful brasserie near the Seine.

The atmosphere was plush and loud, filled with the clinking of glasses and the sound of heavy French laughter. 

I watched Conrad charm my friends over platters of roasted duck and potatoes, effortlessly switching between English and his broken, earnest French, which only seemed to make them like him more. 

He even won over Benito, engaging him in a surprisingly deep and animated debate about the lighting techniques in classic French New Wave cinema. 

Seeing him there, fitting into my Paris life, bridging the gap between my two worlds, made my chest ache with a happiness so sharp it almost hurt. 

He wasn't just a memory of home anymore; he was a vital, irreplaceable part of my present.

We walked home in the early evening darkness. It had started to snow again, big, fat flakes coating the cobblestones and silencing the city sounds, muffling the distant traffic into a gentle hush. 

The walk back to my apartment was quiet, the air charged with everything we hadn't said yet, the anticipation building with every measured step. 

We stopped under an ornate iron streetlamp, and I looked up at him, the snow dusting his lashes. 

He leaned down and kissed me, a slow, gentle kiss that tasted like wine and winter air.

The last time we had truly been alone together, fully and without reservation, was during those three desperate days we spent after he came back to Paris from his Brussels conference months ago, just before he had to fly back to California for school. 

That time, we had barely left the bed, trying to cram years of missed intimacy into seventy-two hours. 

We had tried the long-distance stuff—FaceTime, calls—but it always felt strained, awkward, and ultimately sad, a reminder of the thousands of miles between us. We both admitted it made us feel weird, like we were performing instead of connecting.

Tonight, there was no desperation, only a deep, profound relief.

---

The door to the apartment clicked shut behind us, sealing out the world. 

The space felt smaller, more intimate in the fading light, the remnants of morning's chaos—scattered wrapping paper and empty coffee mugs—still dotting the floor. Junior Mint sat sentinel on the folding chair, his sunglasses glinting in the lamplight. 

Conrad shrugged off his coat, hanging it by the door, and I watched the way his sweater clung to his shoulders, the subtle flex of muscle as he moved. 

Months of separation had only sharpened my awareness of him, every glance and touch electric.

I crossed the room to him. 

His hands found my waist immediately, drawing me in until our bodies pressed together. 

Our lips met in a slow, lingering kiss, the kind that started soft and built like a gathering storm. I tasted the faint sweetness of dessert on his tongue, felt the steady beat of his heart against mine. 

My fingers threaded through his hair, tugging gently, and he groaned into my mouth, the sound sending a shiver down my spine.

We moved toward the bed without breaking apart, shedding layers as we went—both our thick sweaters discarded. 

The cool air of the apartment raised goosebumps on my skin, but his touch chased them away, warm and insistent. 

He guided me down onto the mattress, the sheets still rumpled from our earlier awakening, and hovered above me for a moment, his eyes tracing my face, my body, with a hunger that made my breath catch.

"I've missed this," he whispered, his voice husky as he kissed a path down my neck, his lips brushing the sensitive spot just below my ear. 

I arched into him, my hands roaming the planes of his back, feeling the heat of him seep into me.

He continued lower, his mouth exploring the curve of my collarbone, the swell of my breasts. 

His hands slid up my sides, fingers hooking under the edge of my bra, and with a gentle tug, he unclasped it, easing the fabric away to bare me fully to his gaze. The air kissed my newly exposed skin, but his warm breath followed, soothing and igniting. 

His hands were everywhere—stroking my sides, cupping my hips, grounding me even as desire coiled tighter inside.

One hand roamed lower, fiddling with the button of my jeans before slipping inside, fingers grazing the edge of my panties. 

With deliberate care, he worked them down my hips, sliding them off along, leaving me completely open to him.

My hands, eager to reciprocate, fumbled with the button of his pants, unzipping them with trembling fingers. 

I pushed the fabric down his thighs, feeling the heat of his skin beneath, and he shifted to help, kicking them aside until we were both bare, vulnerable in the best way.

When he shifted further down, parting my thighs with a tenderness that belied the intensity in his gaze, I felt exposed and cherished all at once. 

He settled between my legs, his breath warm against my most sensitive skin. 

The first touch of his mouth was feather-light, a soft kiss that made me gasp. Then he delved deeper, his tongue tracing slow, deliberate circles, savoring me with a patience that unraveled me thread by thread.

I threaded my fingers through his hair, holding on as waves of pleasure built, each lap and swirl drawing me closer to the edge. 

He hummed against me, the vibration sending sparks through my core, and I couldn't hold back the soft moans that escaped my lips. 

His hands gripped my thighs, holding me steady as I writhed, the world narrowing to the exquisite pressure of his mouth, the way he knew exactly how to tease and please. 

It was intimate, consuming—his focus entirely on me, on drawing out every shiver, every sigh, until the tension shattered, leaving me breathless and boneless, my body arching in release.

He rose then, his lips glistening as he crawled back up to me, capturing my mouth in a deep kiss that let me taste myself on him. 

The connection was profound, a sharing that bound us closer. 

I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him down, feeling the hard length of him press against me. 

With a shared breath, a nod of understanding, he entered me slowly, inch by inch, filling me completely. We both stilled for a moment, savoring the stretch, the union after so long apart.

Conrad braced himself above me, his forearms on either side of my head, our gazes locked as he began to move. 

It was unhurried at first, deep thrusts that made me feel every part of him, our bodies syncing in a rhythm we'd perfected over stolen moments. 

His breath mingled with mine, ragged and warm, as he quickened the pace, the bed creaking softly beneath us. 

I met him thrust for thrust, my nails digging into his shoulders, urging him on. 

Pleasure built again, coiling low and fierce, and I clung to him as it crested, crying out his name. 

He followed soon after, burying his face in my neck, his body shuddering with his release. 

We stayed like that, connected, as the aftershocks faded, our hearts pounding in unison.

Eventually, he slipped from me, rolling to his side and pulling me into his arms. The sheets tangled around our legs, the room quiet save for our slowing breaths. 

I nestled against his chest, tracing lazy patterns on his skin, feeling the rise and fall of his ribs. 

The snow outside had picked up, blanketing the window in soft white, but here, in this moment, everything was warm and right.

Conrad's fingers combed through my hair, a gentle massage that lulled me toward sleep. 

"Those photos Benito took this morning," he murmured, his voice sleepy but content. 

"I want all of them. The ones of us in bed, all messy and happy. The hug during the gifts. Every single one. I don't want to forget a second of this."

I smiled against his skin, my heart swelling. "I'll make sure you get them. They're ours to keep."

He pressed a kiss to my forehead, his arm tightening around me. "Merry Christmas, Belly."

"Merry Christmas, Conrad," I whispered back, my eyes drifting shut as exhaustion claimed us both, wrapped in each other's warmth as the night deepened.

---

I now look down at the letter in my hand, refolding it carefully along the worn creases, before I go and pull out the red-covered photo album I made when I got back from Paris. 

Flipping through the pages, there are photos of me in the red flannel, him in the knit sweater, clutching coffee mugs, looking like we belonged exactly where we were. 

Conrad was right. 

It was a keeper—a perfect capture of the fun we had last year, and the promise of all the years to come.

Chapter 7: I'm the Perfect Mix of Saturday Night and the Rest of Your Life

Notes:

▶️ Now Playing: So Easy (To Fall in Love) by Olivia Dean

It was a cold, sharp night in San Francisco, roughly a month after the perfect, snow-covered Christmas at Cousins Beach, and I felt like I was living two distinct, contradictory lives. 

One life was a blur of exhausting wedding planning, ruled by Taylor's maximalist agenda, which had successfully colonized the apartment I shared with Conrad. 

There were stacks of glossy bridal magazines on the coffee table, carefully categorized color swatches of seafoam and pale blue taped to the refrigerator like evidence in a conspiracy—colors Taylor referred to as "Ocean Mist" and "Cranberry Kiss," respectively—and printouts of local clam bake caterers scattered across every available surface like tactical war plans. 

The apartment, usually a haven of quiet domesticity after Conrad's grueling hospital shifts, now felt like the headquarters of a high-stakes, extremely well-styled military operation, perpetually dusted with glitter and samples of linen. 

I had spent Tuesday comparing the merits of peonies versus anemones and Wednesday fighting a losing battle against Taylor's insistence on a dove release during the ceremony. 

I was getting a crash course in wedding logistics—or so Taylor seemed to think. 

I kept trying to remind her that this wasn't my first rodeo; we'd literally planned an entire wedding together, down to the seating charts and the cake flavors. 

But Taylor, who had somehow managed to completely erase the memory of the disastrous, aborted wedding to Jeremiah from her active consciousness, insisted that this was the only real, official, 'non-traumatizing' planning that counted. 

The sheer weight of the decision-making was enough to make me consider eloping to city hall, if only Conrad weren't equally committed to minimizing conflict with my enthusiastic best friend.

This Saturday, however, was about relaxation and escape from the tyranny of the RSVP list.

We were at The Anchor & Vine, our favorite low-lit spot downtown—a bar/restaurant hybrid with dark wooden booths, and the constant, comforting background hum of conversation. 

The air outside was frigid, carrying the damp scent of the nearby bay, but inside, the atmosphere was a sanctuary of amber light and muffled noise. 

It was a perfect contrast to the sterile air of Conrad’s hospital and the oppressive humidity of Taylor's planning binders. 

We had settled into a corner booth draped in worn, dark-red leather, where the background music was a low-level, smoky jazz that perfectly matched the glow of the Edison bulbs. 

It was a haven from the pressures of work, school, and, suddenly, my chaotic wedding spreadsheets. 

Steven had just headed to the bar to fight the Saturday crowd for a second round of drinks, a necessary combat operation he took very seriously, treating the procurement of beverages like a mission-critical extraction. This left Taylor and me with a brief window of unfiltered privacy, which, without fail, always meant one thing: oversharing.

I fiddled with the diamond on my left hand—it had become a natural gesture now, a comfort object, a cool, solid assurance of permanence in my life. I traced the delicate silver band, feeling the unexpected weight of the promise it represented. It wasn't just a ring; it was the physical proof that all the heartache was finally over. 

I sighed contentedly, leaning back into the plush, worn leather of the booth. I had never felt so utterly grounded, so completely secure, even while facing the daunting prospect of planning a wedding in six months. 

It felt surreal that the boy I had loved since childhood was now my fiancé, and all the agonizing, breathless uncertainty that had defined our relationship for years—the on-again, off-again cycles, the misunderstandings, the fear of abandonment—was simply gone. 

"Okay, spill the tea, B," Taylor demanded, adjusting the neckline of her silk blouse and turning towards me. "How are things really with Conrad? Now that the ring is official, have you guys been… busy?"

I raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. 

Taylor rolled her eyes, her lips curling into a knowing smirk. "Belly, please. We are talking about the engagement sex. I need the full report."

I blushed furiously, immediately covering my mouth with my hand, but despite our long history of oversharing, I launched into the details of our quick trip to Cousins, giving her the full, unfiltered details she demanded. 

It was different now—I told her. Not just physical, but layered with an extra, profound certainty that made everything quieter and more settled. 

The frantic rush of our early years was gone, replaced by a deep, powerful sense of belonging. The terrifying, desperate, young feeling that this moment might be the last was finally extinguished. 

Now, when Conrad looked at me, I saw unwavering confidence that he’d never have to leave, and I’d never have to worry about chasing him down the coast again. The security was the new rush.

"It was like one morning last week," I confided, leaning in slightly, "When we woke up way too early, and instead of rushing to get him to the hospital, it was just slow and easy and perfect."

Taylor’s eyes widened with satisfying approval, a wave of nostalgia passing over her. 

"Belly, I'm telling you, the engagement phase is the best. I remember when Steven and I were engaged," she paused, waving a dismissive hand at the present, "it was like every piece of furniture was an opportunity. Enjoy it now, because work stress is a real boner-killer, trust me. You two need to be doing it as often as physically possible before all he can talk about is patient rounds."

"Taylor! Gross! Ew!" I made a face, utterly grossed out by the unsolicited mental image of my brother and best friend.

Taylor laughed in response, unbothered. "That's why we can only ever talk about your sex life, Belly, because mine involves your brother."

Steven chose that exact, catastrophic moment to slide back into the booth, expertly navigating the crowded restaurant with four full glasses. He placed two beers and two glasses of Cabernet down.

I could tell from his expression that he sensed the strange, heightened, slightly manic energy at the table. 

"What were you laughing about?" Steven asked as he slid into the opposite side of the booth from us.

Taylor, thoroughly enjoying the moment and my visible discomfort, met Steven’s gaze, her eyes twinkling mischievously. 

"We were just discussing Belly's sex life," Taylor announced loud and proud.

Steven instantly recoiled, nearly launching his beer across the table as he leaned violently away, his eyes wide in horror and disgust. 

"Oh! Gross! No, stop it right there! Boundaries, people! You guys can’t talk about that in front of me! That's my little sister! That's my best friend! I don’t want to think about the fact that you two are occasionally doing... that." He shuddered dramatically, wiping his hands on his jeans as if trying to cleanse himself of the mere concept of my private life.

Taylor leaned in close to him, ignoring my frantic pleading gaze for her to stop the torture. 

"I mean, we should totally try some of the things they have been trying. You know, spice things up ourselves!" She said in a playful tone

Steven pushed her shoulder hard, his face a mask of utter disgust and betrayal. 

"Absolutely not. You are disgusting! I swear to god, Tay, you're ruining beer for me! And my ability to look at my sister without gagging!"

Just as the argument reached peak ridiculousness—and Steven began planning his immediate evacuation—the door opened, and a tall, familiar figure stepped in. 

The argument instantly ceased. The sudden, quiet authority of his presence drew all eyes.

Taylor’s eyes locked onto him, and she leaned back, an almost flirtatious challenge in her voice. 

"Speak of the doctor," she said loudly.

My face instantly softened into the easy, genuine smile that only Conrad Fisher could pull out of me. I felt the immediate relief of his steady presence cutting through the chaos and my brother's manufactured trauma. 

I waved him over to where we were sitting. He saw us and made his way over. 

Everyone stood up to greet him. 

He first gave me a quick kiss before hugging Taylor and giving Steven a pat on the back, before sliding into the booth next to him and opposite me.

"Sorry I'm late, guys," he said, running a tired hand through his perpetually messy hair. 

The lines of fatigue around his eyes were the only evidence of the marathon shift he'd just completed. "The last resident shift had an emergency procedure I couldn’t bail on. What were you guys talking about before I got here?" he asked, surveying the slightly chaotic, flushed energy at the table with suspicious caution.

Steven picked up his beer, still deeply scarred, and took a large, cleansing sip. "Things you don’t want to know, Conrad. Things you never want to know. Trust me. I'll leave it at that."

Conrad’s attention immediately shifted, ignoring Steven’s theatrical warning and zeroing in on me. 

The change was palpable: the hospital stress melting away, replaced by the deep, internal quiet I brought him.

"How was your day, babe?"

"It was good, but exhausting," I confirmed, placing my hand over his under the table, savoring the solid warmth. "I just handled the invoices. I already ordered your dinner for you, which I know you haven’t had time to think about all day, or probably eat anything substantial. I got you the ribeye, medium-rare, with the side of roasted root vegetables you like. I specifically requested extra garlic and butter, and it should be here any minute."

He just gave me a knowing look, his eyes crinkling at the corners. 

"Thank you, that’s exactly what I needed," he said, squeezing my knee underneath the table before settling in to wait for his food.

The casual conversation picked up, falling into the comfortable rhythm of our long-standing friendship. 

After the initial updates and a detailed critique of the steak, Taylor set her glass down with a decisive thunk, reclaiming the spotlight.

"Okay, major agenda item," Taylor announced, her eyes gleaming with renewed planning zeal. 

"The Bachelor and Bachelorette parties. Steven and I have been brainstorming itineraries. Steven’s leaning full Grand Theft Auto in Vegas, complete with a rented penthouse, spontaneous gambling at 4:00 AM, and a mandatory late-night excursion to an all-night diner for celebratory greasy food."

Steven instantly jumped in, eyes blazing with enthusiasm, defending his vision. 

"A bachelor party is non-negotiable, man! We are chartering a luxury bus, hiring a DJ for the night, and making you perform a choreographed dance routine! No tattoos. But definitely a total lack of accountability for 48 hours! We need the stories, Con! This is your final glorious moment of youth—you have to go out with a bang!"

"And I'm leaning towards a five-star, tequila-fueled weekend in Tulum," Taylor countered, raising her wine glass dramatically, clearly unwilling to relinquish her extravagant vision. 

"Think a private beachfront villa, an artisanal mezcal tasting, a cleansing shamanic ceremony involving sound baths, locally sourced crystals, and an energy alignment session, and matching personalized robes embroidered with 'Future Mrs. Fisher' in gold thread. Just imagine the Instagram content!"

Conrad and I looked at each other across the table. I felt our identical look of quiet amusement and firm resolution pass between us. 

We were a unified front of anti-chaos, veterans who had seen too many battles to fall for the spectacle. We weren't the people who needed to "send off" their single lives; we were the people who had already chosen their shared life and simply wanted to enjoy it, quietly.

"Yeah," I began, reaching for Conrad’s hand, lacing my fingers through his. "We talked about that. We genuinely appreciate the thought, Tay, and Steven, but the sheer extravagance and the high-pressure schedule make my anxiety itch."

"We're not going to have them," Conrad finished, calmly cutting into his steak, the decision already made and settled. His tone was definitive, leaving no room for negotiation.

Steven and Taylor stared at him, motionless, their faces registering a mixture of shock and betrayal. 

The silence was thick enough to cut with his steak knife.

"Excuse me?" Taylor finally squeaked, sounding genuinely wounded. "Are you kidding? This is the one time you get a truly ridiculous, celebratory send-off! It's tradition! It’s the law of modern weddings! You have to have a moment of pure, ill-advised recklessness before committing to domesticity!"

"We know," I said quickly, shaking my head, my smile softening the blow. "But look, we’ve been through this whole thing before, with all the drama and the pressure. The last bachelor and bachelorette parties were, shall we say, catastrophic." 

I didn't need to specify the details; the memory of that pain, of all the tears and misplaced anger that defined our time apart. 

"The whole experience felt rushed and performative, like we were just doing what we were supposed to do, instead of what we actually wanted to do."

I squeezed his hand, affirming the choice. 

"We realized that the only people who need to celebrate us are the six of us. We want a low-key, coed trip. Something simple and fun. Just us, you guys, and of course, Jere and Denise. It’s important to us that they are part of the celebration now, too."

Steven slowly nodded, accepting the profound logic. "Alright. Even if it crushes my Vegas boys trip dreams, I can get behind a lowkey Cousins trip."

Taylor sighed dramatically, the vision of Tulum disappearing into the San Francisco air, but a new, equally ambitious scheme immediately replacing it. 

"Fine. A civilized, joint bachelorette/bachelor weekend it is. But I get to plan the games. And they will involve tequila, a competitive activity like a very aggressive board game tournament, and some light, emotionally damaging truths that will serve as pre-marital counseling."

The compromise was struck, settling the final piece of old, messy history—the failed pre-wedding celebrations—with a simple, shared decision. 

I loved that the certainty of our relationship was replacing the chaos of the past. It felt stronger and truer than any extravagant party or ill-advised trip ever could.

A little later, after we had all finished our meals and drinks, we got ready to head back to our apartments. 

We said our goodbyes at the door, promising a full wedding planning session tomorrow evening.

Once we were walking down the dark, dimly lit street, Conrad tucked me tightly against his side, his arm heavy and solid around my shoulders. 

The wind was brutal, hitting us from the bay, making my cheeks sting and my eyes water, but I was completely warm and safe within his embrace. 

"You okay with that?" he asked softly, glancing down at me, his voice a low vibration against my temple. 

"The no-party thing?" He sounded genuinely relieved.

I looked up, my expression utterly sincere, the light from a distant lamppost catching the glittering diamond on my finger. 

"I am. More than okay. Last time, those parties just felt like obligations, like a required performance before the actual show, and they ended in disaster."

Conrad stopped walking, turning his body toward mine, a familiar, knowing smirk playing on his lips. 

"Disaster, huh? I seem to remember that particular disaster ended with me finally saying something I should have said years before, on the beach.”

We shared a long, quiet look, the memory of that tumultuous night—the confession, the fear, the rejection—now softened by time and the security of our present. The memory wasn't painful anymore; it was just the origin story of our certainty.

"I still think about it sometimes," I confessed, resting my head against his shoulder. "Telling you I didn't love you then, which is the biggest lie I’ve ever told. I was terrified of what choosing you meant, so I just said the opposite."

He tightened his arm around me, accepting the painful truth without judgment. 

"I knew, Belly. I saw it in your eyes, even while you were saying the words. We’re here now. That's all that matters."

"Yeah," I confirmed, my voice a little breathless as I leaned into him. "It was the best kind of disaster."

We continued walking until we reached the stretch of street where we’d parked. 

Our cars, his dark gray Range Rover and my dark gray Mini Countryman, were sitting side by side.

"I found your Mini first, tucked way down here," Conrad said, gently nudging me, his voice softening with affection. "I made sure I parked right next to you so I could walk you all the way here like a true gentleman." 

He leaned down, his eyes dark and full of the promise of tomorrow.

I joked, giving him a long, teasing kiss that was just a bit more than teasing, pulling away only when I started to feel dizzy. 

I laughed, a sudden surge of adrenaline hitting me, and goofily ran to my car as I yelled back, "Well, too bad, because I'm racing you home!"

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of After The Summer I Turned Pretty