Forever
HARDIN’S POV
Sunlight seeped through the curtains in lazy rays, casting patches of gold across the bed. The sheets were rumpled, still smelling of us—skin, sweat, and something electric that refused to fade.
Ariana lay asleep beneath me, her fingers tangled in my damp hair, her chest rising and falling in soft waves. Her face was peaceful, lips parted just enough to reveal that hazy post-dream smile, and that sight alone made my chest tighten.
I traced a fingertip along her cheek, brushing stray strands of her blonde hair behind her ear. My heart thumped with a fierce kind of protectiveness. Last night—every moan, every gasp, every hot, sweaty moment—had been worth it. Because this… this was what I wanted to wake up to for the rest of my life.
I pushed away carefully, sliding out from under her. She stirred, a soft whimper leaving her lips as she reached toward the empty spot on the pillow. My heart twisted.
Damn, I loved her.
Quiet as a ghost, I padded downstairs and entered the kitchen. My family was there: Dad, smirking over his coffee; Vera, practically grinning; Mom, silent, disapproval etched in every line of her posture.
Dad lifted an eyebrow, the kind of look that said he’d figured out what I did last night. “Enjoy your birthday night, son?” he teased.
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t wipe the grin off my face. “Morning to you, too.”
Vera covered a snort with her napkin. “You’re in deep,” she whispered, only half-joking.
“She’s worth it,” I muttered as I loaded a tray with eggs, toast, Ariana’s favorite cinnamon rolls, and coffee—two sugars, no cream.
Mom watched me, lips tight. Beatrice would never understand kindness like that. She could stand up and go to war over Ariana. But this morning, all I wanted was Ariana.
Tray in hand, I headed back upstairs. Each step felt like the countdown to confession.
I pushed open the door. There she was—sitting up, hair wild, sheet slipping off her shoulder, eyes glowing with morning warmth. She caught my gaze, and her sleepy smile hit me like sunrise.
“Hey,” she murmured.
“Good morning, beautiful.”
I set the tray down and attacked her with kisses—cheeks, lips, neck—until she squirmed and laughed. “Hardin! The food’s gonna get cold!”
“You come first,” I murmured, pressing a final kiss to her collarbone. “Always.”
She rolled her eyes, heat coloring her cheeks. We settled into bed, plates on our laps, and ate together in that perfect, comfortable silence. Her hand wrapped around mine between bites, toes brushing irresponsibly against mine.
She looked at me and smiled. “This is nice.”
“It is.”
It hit me right then—the connection between us, slow-burning but unstoppable. I didn’t just want this day, this morning, this breakfast—I wanted every day like this. I wanted to build with her, to wake up to her voice, to see her laugh across the table. I wanted forever.
I watched her sipping coffee and felt it in the pit of my chest: I was in love. Deep, irrevocably in love. And damn it all, I was going to make this count.
My voice caught. “Ari…”
“What’s up?” She tilted her head, curious.
“Nothing.” I forced a grin. “Just… lucky, I guess.”
She half-smiled, unconvinced. “You’re planning something, aren’t you?” Her eyes flicked to my tray, then back to me.
“Just thinking.” I leaned down and kissed her forehead.
“About what?”
“About how damn lucky I am.”
She rolled her eyes, but I could see the flush creeping up her neck. “You’re cheesy.”
“You love it.”
She brushed her lips against my cheek. “Maybe.”
I tried to pull her into my lap, but she playfully swatted my hands. “Eat, Hardin.”
“Or?” I teased.
She laughed—bright, musical, warm. That laugh went straight to my core.
I let it out then. “Or I’ll keep kissing you until your toast is sad and cold.”
She giggled. “Fine. But after this… you owe me kisses.”
“Deal.”
Halfway through, I looked at her—sunlight in her hair, the soft curve of her smile—and something firmed inside me. I cleared my throat and set my coffee cup down.
“Ari…” I said, quietly.
She gave me her full attention, that mix of excitement and teasing in her eyes. God I didn't deserve her.
“I… I’ve been thinking a lot lately. About us. About tomorrow. About every tomorrow. And I realized...
“I want every birthday with you. Every messy morning, every laugh, every late-night talk, every quiet moment, every storm we get through. I want the days you wake up dizzy from something good—or from me, or from last night—to be with me, always.”
My heart hammered.
“I want to be the guy who makes cinnamon rolls because you love them. I want to be the guy who makes you coffee just right, even when you don’t ask. I want to be the one you wake up to, who makes you feel safe and seen. I want you to be my wife.”
Silence. Breathless, expectant silence.
Her hand found mine. It trembled.
I swallowed, words coming out ragged. “I’m not proposing here—yet. But I will. Soon. Because I’m done waiting. You’re the one. You’re who I want. Forever.”
Tears glimmered in her eyes. I brushed a thumb across her cheek. “I love you, Ariana.”
She swallowed and smiled. “I love you too.”
Breakfast forgotten, we stayed like that—hands tangled, foreheads touching, hearts racing. For the first time in a long time, I was still, because inside me everything had found its place.
I don’t know what the future holds. But I know this: whether we’re fighting or laughing, kissing or crying, I want her beside me through it all.
And soon, I’m going to make sure she knows that—even more than this morning.
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