Bliss

epilogue

If I've learnt anything about Isaac this past month, it's that he's perhaps the most unruffled person in the universe. That is, he's unruffled until he cares about you. It's a relatively small circle of people for whom he'd become ruffled over, and I'm lucky to be within it, although, if he's to be believed, I never left.

Unfortunately, I don't quite believe him.

I should, I know, but I'm not perfect.

I'm someone who has irrational outbursts, hates airport car parks and loves coffee. Someone who paints watercolour dreams and sketches the world as it twirls by. Someone who would die for a Smartie McFlurry. Someone who would, embarrassingly, die for Isaac too.

That last one is progress. A few months ago, I might've said I'm someone who would kill Isaac, but now, I'd jump in front of the stray bullet that is pre-Portugal Lizzie.

Anyway, the point is that I'm far from perfect, but who needs to be?

There's a knock on the summer house door, forcing me to glance at the window. Isaac comes into view, a massive grin slapped across his face. He's holding two boxes and has one of my canvas bags slung over his shoulder.

"Let me in," he shouts.

I stick my tongue out and shake my head.

"I have hazelnut croissants," he says, his voice sing-songy and taunting.

I shrug. He makes a show of pretending to open one of the boxes, the chocolate-dipped pastry exposed in all its flaky glory, until I relent and throw open the door, allowing him to crash in and collapse onto the sofa.

"I knew you couldn't resist me."

"Resist you?" I laugh, leaping across the summer house for a bite of croissant. "I couldn't resist this." I wave it in front of his face.

"Pretend all you like, but we both know the truth."

"What? That if it came down to you or the croissant, the croissant wins every time."

"What about me and a Mcflurry?" he asks.

"Depends on the flavour."

"Me and an Oreo Mcflurry?"

"You." I lean forward and kiss—well, that is, I kiss the corner of his lips.

"What about a Smartie Mcflurry and me?"

"It's a tough call," I admit as I take a thoughtful bite of my croissant. "But I guess I could do without you."

"Good to know where I stand," he laughs, swiping the other croissant before I can.

"You know how I feel about you."

"How can I know when you've never said those three little words?"

"Some of us aren't exhibitionists," I groan. "We don't all have to wear our hearts on our sleeves."

Both his eyebrows shoot into his hairline, and I can't help but bury my face in his chest. "You make me," I mumble into the thin material of his cotton t-shirt as I remember all the stolen moments in not so private places. "I was never like this before."

"Don't pretend you don't like it."

"Of course I like it." A little too much. "But it doesn't make me the open book in our relationship. That's your job. You're the one who steals kisses, the one who says those three little words."

"So I can never expect to hear them from you?"

I creep out from his chest. "I can certainly show you."