Open Roads

Maps

Planning a trip shouldn't feel like falling in love all over again, but somehow it does.

The dining table disappears under an avalanche of maps, guidebooks, and Avery's messy handwriting within minutes. He's in one of his old T-shirts, soft with time, sleeves pushed up his arms, hair pushed back from his face. The loft is warm, sunlight pouring through the windows like honey. The Jeep keys glint on the counter.

"Okay," Avery says, sliding another map toward me with unnecessary drama, "don't laugh, but I got, uh...a few options."

"A few?" I raise an eyebrow.

He scratches the back of his neck. "Like twelve."

I laugh, genuinely, helplessly. The sound bounces off the concrete walls and brightens everything.

He beams, because he always loves when he can make me laugh.
But beneath the playfulness, there's that spark again, the one that says he needs this. Needs movement, discovery, a horizon that doesn't end at the next building.

I swallow that thought and lean over the table, shoulder brushing his.
The contact sends a warm current through me I try not to show.

"What's this route?" I ask.

"West," he says simply. "Until we find something worth stopping for."

His fingers slide along the page, barely touching mine, but enough to make my pulse jump.

"You're impossible," I murmur.

"You love it."

Unfortunately, I do.

Entirely.

We lean over the maps together, our heads close, our arms brushing again and again. There's something sensual about the way he focuses, the crease between his brows, the way his lower lip pulls between his teeth when he's thinking. Each accidental (or not-so-accidental) touch sparks across my skin like static.

"Do you want mountains first?" he asks. "Or maybe the coast?"

"You're asking like I've processed leaving the city yet."

"Paige." His voice softens. "You said yes."

"I did."

"And I'm really glad you did."

He reaches for my hand, lacing our fingers together across the pile of maps. His thumb strokes slow circles over my palm, steady and warm, the kind of touch meant to anchor me. The kind that works.

"I'm scared," I whisper, surprising even myself.

"I know," he murmurs, leaning in until his forehead brushes mine. "But I'm here."

His voice is low, soft, grounded, and it hits something deep inside me. Something that loosens the tightness in my chest.

I let out a breath I've been holding all morning.

Avery smiles as if he felt it move through me.

"Let's take a break," he says gently.

He pulls me onto the sectional, our maps spilling like fallen leaves behind us. The cushions dip beneath our weight, and he settles close, his thigh against mine, his arm draped behind my shoulders. The nearness of him feels deliberate, protective, and undeniably intimate.

"Tell me what's on your mind," he says.

I look down at our intertwined hands. "I feel like I'm rewriting who I am."

His fingers tighten around mine. "You don't have to rewrite anything."

"Maybe not," I say, voice quieter. "But I think I have to...redraw some lines."

He nods. Then, gently "Is it hard? Loving me, while I'm changing?"

I meet his eyes.

The question is raw. Honest. Vulnerable.

"No," I say immediately. "Loving you isn't hard. It's the easiest thing I've ever done."
I take a shaky breath. "It's figuring out who I am next to you that's hard."

His expression softens into something warm and fierce at once.

"I love you," he says so steady, so sure. "Not because of who you thought you were. Not because of who I'm becoming. But because you and I...fit."

The words settle into me, slow and deep. My heart stumbles, then steadies against the weight of them.

He leans closer, brushing his lips against my cheek, not a kiss, not yet, just a warm, lingering press that makes the room feel smaller around us.

"You don't have to have the answers." he murmurs. "We're figuring this out side by side."

I turn, and our lips meet, warm and slow, a promise rather than a question. His hand cups the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair, pulling me closer in that way that feels like gravity.

The kiss deepens its not rushed, not wild, but full. A slow, unfolding warmth that spreads through me like sunlight across bare skin. The kind of kiss that says we're in this together, on the road and off it.

When we break apart, his breath is unsteady.

"So," he says softly, forehead still against mine, "mountains or coast?"

I laugh, breathless. "Anywhere. Just...with you."

He grins, brushing his thumb along my jaw. "Good answer."

We spend the next hour choosing routes, tangled up against each other, the maps rustling every time he shifts closer.

Every decision becomes a touch

Every touch becomes a heartbeat.

Every heartbeat becomes a promise.

By sunset, the route is planned. By midnight, the bags are half-packed. 

And by morning, I know one thing with absolute certainty:

I'm not afraid of the road anymore.

Not with him beside me.