The sun had barely crested the treetops when Opal heard the crunch of gravel outside her window.
She moved to the glass, parting the curtain with two fingers.
There he was.
Kael's truck idled in the driveway, sun glinting off the windshield. He was leaning against the driver's door in a soft charcoal sweater and jeans, arms crossed, head tilted just enough to look up at her window like he knew she was watching.
Her stomach did a slow, swooping flip. Not from nerves—no, not anymore—but from the sheer weight of it all.
This was real.
He was here.
It was time.
She picked up her bag, already packed with her essentials—just enough for a few days until she came back for the rest. Her boxes were stacked by the door, clearly labeled in Brooks' handwriting. Shoes. Books. Weird Moon Rock Collection. (That last label was Forrest's doing.)
