Page 137 of Every Shattered Note
“I love you,” he whispers, his voice rough, breaking just enough to sound real.“Every shattered note of you.Every shattered note you rebuild inside me.I fucking love you, my Alybear.”
Fuck.
That’s not fair.
That he says it like that.
That he means it.
That somehow, in the space between his words and the pulse in my throat, all the noise inside me starts to make sense.
I press my mouth to his again, slower this time.Deeper.More certain.One of those kisses that’s more than just a kiss—it’s a confession wrapped in skin and breath and the aching fear that we might break it if we speak too loudly.
“I love you too,” I whisper against his lips.“It happened gradually.Then all at once.Like I looked up one day and couldn’t remember what it felt like not to have you in my life.”
He exhales a soft curse, then kisses me again, this time rougher—like he can’t quite believe I said it out loud.
“Say it again,” he breathes.
“I love you.”
His arms fold around me like he’s bracing himself for the reality of it.And I get it.We’re not built for easy.There’s a dozen reasons why we shouldn’t work.But right now, I don’t care.This feels like the thing we were always meant to find—just not too soon.Not before we were ready.
Around us, the music fades.The last note drifts, and the room picks up its rhythm again—silverware clinks, laughter returns, and someone drops a tray somewhere.But none of it touches us.
Not yet.
He leans in close, brushing his lips along my temple.“Tomorrow night,” he murmurs, “we dance again.”
“Always.”
His hand finds mine again as we step back into the current of the night.
He might’ve mentioned my shattered notes, but I think it’s his that are now falling into place—one by one, in the quiet between us—until the song finally becomes ours.
And it’s so wildly imperfect, and so perfectly us.
Epilogue
Dexter
May 12, 2002
The house sits on the hill above the Sound—glass and cedar and light.
It catches the morning like it was designed to hold warmth.
Aly says the walls feel alive, like they’re still breathing in sawdust and sea air.
I like that.The idea that even wood remembers you, if you stay long enough.
We didn’t build this place to show off.It’s not grand, not architectural art.It’s imperfect and wide enough to hold both of us without swallowing either one whole.It’s ready—when we are—for laughter and scraped knees and lullabies in the hallway.
Aly calls it home.
I call it proof.
She’s in our room, half-wrapped in sleep, humming along to the radio.It’s “Thank You” by Dido—off-key in a few places.I love that about her.That she sings anyway.
