The Luna's Revenge
They laid out on the inn’s rooftop, wrapped in a single blanket, a bottle of red wine between them, and no sound but the sea and the occasional seagull still yelling about something.
“I don’t want this to end,” Natalie whispered.
“Who says it has to?”
“I mean this—this little world. This calm.”
He turned to her, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Then let’s make a life that feels like this. Not just on rooftops. Not just on vacations. Every day. Even the boring ones.”
She studied him, her heart so full it felt like it might spill out of her eyes.
“I think I married a poet,” she said.
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