E I G H T M O N T H S L A T E R

I’M GRATEFUL FOR THE MILD NOVEMBER, so I can still get on my bike and feel the breeze hit my face as my hair whips around me, tickling my nose.

It’s the little things that make me smile.

I pull up to the quaint, downtown coffee shop, locking my bicycle to the metal rack and smoothing down my windblown hair. It’s been an exhausting week at work, wrapping up first quarter assignments and prepping for exams before we head into Thanksgiving break. I’ve been looking forward to our monthly coffee date ever since my alarm clock tore me from an idyllic dream this morning, consisting of sand in my toes and

his laughter dancing off each rippling wave.

I shake the reverie away, adjusting my sweater dress and plucking a rebel leaf from my knee-high boot. I sling my purse strap over one shoulder and push through the entry door, casing the small café for my dates.

“Cora!”

I glance to my left, spotting them in a corner booth, and I wave with a smile. “Sorry I’m late,” I say, still slightly out of breath from the five mile trek. “I hopped on my bike last minute—the weather was too nice.”

Tabitha beams up at me as I approach the cozy booth. “Only you could pull off looking like a movie star after a twenty-minute cardio session.”

“Hardly. I flashed a dozen people on the way over and ate half my hair,” I tease. I tug my V-neck sweater dress down, regretting the fashion choice, as I slip into the seat. I shift my gaze to baby Hope, who is still secured

inside her car seat, playing with the dangling rattles and toys in front of her. “She’s getting so big.”

“She just turned ten months on Tuesday. It’s wild, right?”

“Wow.” The baby is absolutely gorgeous with tuffs of silky black hair, just like her mother’s. Her eyes are like sapphires, her cheeks round and pink. I look back to Tabitha across the table and find her gazing at me with a thoughtful expression. “What? Is there a bug in my hair?” I frantically

swipe at my golden blonde tresses, while Tabitha laughs at me. “You’re bug-free. I was just admiring you.”

I lower my arms, my features relaxing. “Oh.”

“You’re absolutely glowing, Cora. You look incredible,” she tells me, folding her hands around her coffee cup and tilting her head to the side, studying me further. “I’m proud of you.”

I let her words wash through me like a calming cleanse, my own smile blooming. The truth is, I feel incredible. Lighter. Softer. Free and weightless.

The last eight months have been nothing short of challenging, filled with uphill battles, hours upon hours of counseling and mental health struggles, and a promise to myself every single morning that I will be better than I

was the day before.

I joined a meetup group for PTSD survivors and have made an

abundance of new friends and kindred spirits. I took up bike riding as a form a therapy and have put on a healthy amount of weight and muscle mass, spiking my confidence levels and prompting me to splurge on a new wardrobe. I have monthly coffee dates with Tabitha, weekly dinners with

my parents—along with Mandy and her new boyfriend—and regular girly movie nights with Lily and the occasional coworker. I take my dogs for a long walk every morning. I picked up summer hours at the school to keep myself busy and distracted. I listen to inspirational podcasts and audiobooks. I drink smoothies. I take my vitamins.

I even got a tattoo.

I won’t lie and say things are perfect now. I still have nightmares. I still sleep with the light on because the dark makes me uneasy. I still jump when someone touches me in an unfamiliar way, and I still mentally retreat sometimes, zoning out in the middle of a conversation when I don’t even

realize it.

And… I still miss him.

But I’m healing. I’m learning. I’m growing. And there’s no going back to the person I was eight months ago—not ever.

“Thank you,” I reply softly, tucking a lock of recently highlighted hair behind my ear. “You look great, too. I swear you get prettier every time I see you.”

Her cheeks fill with rosy blush as she ducks her head, then nods to the lone coffee sitting beside me. “I ordered for you.”

“Ooh, thank you.” I reach for the drink, bringing it to my lips and sighing deep. “Vanilla cappuccino with an extra shot of espresso. You’re my hero.”

It really is the little things.

Tabitha fiddles with one of her loose bracelets as she eyes my wrist. “Your tattoo looks great. It healed up nicely.”

I glance down at the simple design peeking out from under my long sleeve. I lift my arm to give her a better look, grazing the pad of my thumb over my pulse point. It’s a heartbeat tattoo, a little EKG symbol, etched

across the tiny scars I carved into my wrist with my own fingernails. It’s drawn along the exact spot Dean would comfort me, giving me a daily reminder of everything I’ve suffered through and have overcome. It’s trained me to stop scratching myself—an anxious habit I picked up post- rescue. And, well… it makes me think of him.

“Thanks,” I say. “I love it. It keeps me present—in the moment, you know?”

She nods. “I’ve been thinking about getting a tattoo to honor Matthew. Maybe Hope’s name weaved into a butterfly. Butterflies make me smile.” Tabitha takes a sip of her coffee, swallowing it down and braving her next question. “Have you talked to Dean recently?”

My heart beats faster at the mere mention of him. Oy. “Here and there,” I tell her, shifting back into the booth and fidgeting with my dress belt. “He

texts me sometimes to see how I’m doing. He left me a nice voicemail on my birthday in August.” I chuckle then, thinking about our last interaction on social media. “He recently tagged me in this article showcasing the world’s greatest pranks and practical jokes. He said he was taking notes.”

Tabitha grins over her cup, tickling Hope’s toes when the baby squeals beside us. “That’s great, Cora. I’m glad it hasn’t been complete radio

silence.”

Me, too. I wasn’t sure what to expect in those initial months after he left

—I wasn’t even sure what I wanted. They say ‘out of sight, out of mind’ is

the key to healing, but I never felt like I needed to heal from Dean. I needed to heal from myself. And I couldn’t imagine a future in which he simply didn’t exist anymore.

So, the occasional contact has been refreshing. We never let our

conversations get emotional or veer into any intimate territory. He checks in. I check in. We send a funny meme here and there.

We stay connected.

Tied, but with a loose grip. It’s enough for now.

I’m just not sure if it always will be.

Tabitha gives Hope a wafer to gum when the baby begins to fuss, and we continue our chat over coffee and giggles. Time runs away from us, as it usually does during our monthly get-togethers, and Tabitha needs to head out for a doctor’s appointment. When we hug goodbye, I feel her arms

encompass me in an extra tight squeeze, her breath whispering against my ear.

“You’re such an inspiration, Cora. The true meaning of hope.”

Tears rim my eyes as we pull back, and I offer her a watery smile. “The feeling is very mutual.”

I watch the two girls depart the café, returning the wave Tabitha sends me as they disappear down the sidewalk. I grab my purse, about to follow

her out, when I remember I wanted to bring home two puppuccinos for Jude and Penny—which is basically a cup filled with whipped cream.

What to know what else is whipped? Me.

I laugh at the absurdity of carrying home cups of whipped cream in my purse for my dogs, and shuffle over to the counter. I hear the door jingle behind me as I order, then I move off to the side and wait. When I collect the two cups and make sure the lids are sealed tight, I spin around and

collide into a hard body. “Oh! I’m so sorry.”

“Shit. Sorry.”

That voice.

We both look up, making eye contact, and I freeze.

Then I drop one of the two puppuccinos, sending a spattering of whipped cream all over my boot. I feel like I should probably clean it up, but I can’t seem to take my eyes off him, and moving in general is definitely out of the realm of possibility.

Dean’s face is a mask of surprise, a little bit of wonder, and a hell of a lot of oh, shit. “You dropped something.”

I blink, registering his words very slowly. When they sink in, I can’t help but release a small smile that only brightens when his own smile begins to stretch. “Did I?” I squeak out, feeling a strange mix of disbelief, awe, confusion, and potent familiarity.

“According to my pant leg, you did.”

I glance down, my face flushing with embarrassment as I take in the whipped cream dappling the leg of his jeans. When I look back up, the humor has faded, and neither of us make any attempt to clean up the mess.

“You look amazing, Cora,” he breathes out, his eyes scanning over my healthy curves, shorter hair, and settling on the renewed sparkle in my eyes. “I didn’t even recognize you when I walked in.”

I duck my head, somewhat bashfully. “You’re just not used to seeing me in anything other than sweatpants,” I joke.

Dean is still studying me head to toe, but not in a sleazy way—it’s almost like he’s soaking me up. Reveling in all of my put-back-together pieces. “It’s not that.”

We both know it’s not that.

I swallow, trying to find the words I’ve so desperately wanted to say to him for eight long months, but now that he’s here, I feel tongue-tied. I

nibble my lip, our eyes drawing back together. “You look good, too.”

Well, he does. He really does. He’s wearing a crisp, black button-down over a white band t-shirt with dark jeans. His hair is mussed and slightly

overgrown, and a light stubble shadows his jaw. And I think his eyes are even bluer—is that possible?

I clear my throat when he doesn’t reply and attempt more words. “What are you doing back in town?”

Dean finally seems to be swept from whatever daydream he was lost in, and he scratches the back of his head, shuffling from one foot to the other. “I was visiting my mom. Also, my buddy, Reid… he had something he wanted to talk to me about, so I’m on my way over to meet him.”

I hate that I wish his answer had simply been… you.

I flick my fingers through my hair, brushing it over to the opposite side. I have a feeling I know what Reid wants to talk to him about, but it’s not my place to tell, so I just nod and stand there in awkward silence. I seem to

have run out of words.

“I wanted to see you, Cora.” Dean presses his lips together, his cheek ticking as he lets out a low breath. “A lot. I just… I didn’t know if you wanted to see me, and I didn’t want to disrupt your life. I didn’t want to

pass through and shake you up, only to walk away again. It seemed easier to keep my distance.”

“I get it,” I quickly nod, forcing an agreeable smile as my hand clings to the surviving puppuccino cup. My sweater sleeve slips to my elbow, catching Dean’s attention, and he stares at the small tattoo along my wrist. I don’t miss the sharp intake of air he sucks in when he spots it. I hold it out to him, proudly displaying my new piece of art. “Do you like it?”

Dean seems to drift for a moment, somewhere far away, and I wonder if it’s the same place I go to sometimes. He clears his throat through a nod.

“Yeah. I like it a lot.”

I can tell he wants to touch it. He wants to reach out and press his thumb to the sensitive underside of my wrist, tracing the little design, sending

goosebumps up my spine. I see it in his eyes. But he resists the temptation and slides his hands into his pockets instead.

“Well, I won’t keep you. I’m sure you’re not in town long,” I blurt.

Those were literally the last words I wanted to say to him, but they just spilled out.

Judging by the tensing of his jaw and the shift in his gaze, I think they were the last words Dean wanted to hear, too.

“Right,” he says, tousling his dark hair with one hand and dipping his chin to his chest. “I should get going.”

“Okay.” I chomp down on my lip, keeping it from releasing more lies. He strains a smile. “This was a nice surprise. You really do look good.” “You, too.”

This isn’t us. We’re more than trivial conversation and superficial dialogue.

Dammit.

But then he starts walking away with his whipped cream jeans and eyes full of missed opportunity, and my feet stay glued to the coffee shop floor, unable to do much more than watch. I feel helpless. Stuck. Conflicted.

Dean glances over his shoulder at me before he steps out the door. So many unsaid words pass between us with that one, striking look. It’s brief. It’s here and gone within a blink, and yet, it clenches my heart like a tight fist.

I let out a hard breath and lean down to pick up the fallen cup, reaching for a napkin to swipe the mess off the tile. I toss the garbage into the trash can near the door, watching Dean saunter down the sidewalk, pausing just once. He stands there for a moment, faltering, his hand massaging the back of his neck as he glances down at his boots. Then he keeps on walking.

I close my eyes.

I take a deep breath. Then I say, screw it.

I force my feet into action and push through the doors, jogging down the busy sidewalk with my hair and my inhibitions trailing behind me. “Dean!”

He stops in his tracks, spinning around, his mouth tipping up into a grin when he sees me running towards him. There is a distinct relief mingling with his surprise.

I come to a slow stop in front of him, fluffing my hair back and laughing lightly. “Can we do that over?”

“Please,” he chuckles, his hands on his hips, his eyes twinkling beneath the autumn sun.

“Should I drop the whipped cream again?”

Dean pretends to ponder this, scratching his jaw. “I think we can skip that part.”

I nod, then lean up on my tiptoes to circle my arms around his neck, pressing my chest against his, my heart against his, my mouth grazing the skin of his throat. I breathe him in, and I feel like I am home.

And holy hell, what is that cologne he’s wearing? Is it new?

Is it legal?

“Hi,” I whisper, feeling the way he shivers against my lips.

Dean’s arms wrap around my waist as he pulls me closer, his tension draining with mine. He inhales deeply, exhaling his doubts and regrets against my temple. “Hi.”

It’s a hi. It’s a hello. It’s a welcome back—I missed you.

We don’t pull apart right away. We savor the feel of our warm bodies melded together in a way that makes my knees tremble and my belly flutter.

I try to memorize the way he feels in my arms, hard and safe, buzzing with heat and energy and undeniable chemistry.

I only step back when my toes feel like they’re going to fall off from leaning up on them for so long. I straighten out my dress, unable to hide the tiny smile that feels permanently engraved into my cheeks. “That was better.”

His smile matches mine as we stand there toe to toe. “Much better.” “Do you want to go to dinner tonight?”

Oh, hello, word vomit. There you are.

I inch backwards just a step, my face heating up from the bold request. Dean’s eyes flash with something playful, something almost wicked.

“Are you asking me out on a date?”

“Ew, no. Never.” I look away, pursing my lips, before glancing right back at him. “But do you?”

“Yes.”

I grin. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

We stare at each other, enchanted and bewitched, temporarily speechless as we absorb the implication of my invitation.

A date. With Dean.

We’ve gone from mortal enemies to two people thrown into the black

pits of Hell together. We’ve shared tears, trauma, angry words, and a lot of hot, toxic sex. We’ve been through it all, and yet, we’ve never gone on a

date before.

Such a simple thing is filling me with a plethora of tiny sparks, like lightning bugs fluttering around inside my heart. I smile up at him—a little shy, a little nervous, a little flirtatious. “Pick me up at seven?”

Dean nods, pacing backwards with a wink. “See you then, Corabelle.”

I watch him turn around and head down the sidewalk once again, but this time, there is a bounce in his step. There is no hesitation.

This time, he knows he’s coming back.