Page 62 of Until You

epilogue

Cora

a few weeks later…

"Close your eyes."

I give Oliver a look that I hope communicates the full depth of my skepticism. We're sitting in his truck—the same white double cab, the same bench seat where everything started, except now there's a car seat base installed in the back and a half-eaten sleeve of saltines in the cupholder because pregnancy has made me a gremlin who eats every forty-five minutes.

"I don't close my eyes for surprises," I say. "Surprises and I have a complicated history."

Oliver's hand rests on my thigh, his thumb drawing an absent circle against the bare skin above my knee. It's one of those things he does now—touches me like it's nothing, like his hand just naturally migrates to wherever I am. Like I'm his true north and his compass is hardwired.

It ruins me every single time.

"Cora." He says my name the way he always does—low, unhurried, like it's a word he wants to keep in his mouth a little longer. "Close your eyes. Please."

"The 'please' is a nice touch."

"I've been practicing."

I narrow my eyes at him. He's wearing that almost-smile, the one I spent months trying to earn the full version of. These days, I get the full version more often than not, but right now he's holding back, and that means he's nervous. Oliver Blankenship doesn't get nervous. The man stares down twelve-hundred-pound bulls for a living and barely blinks.

But right now, his jaw is doing that thing. The flex. The tell.

"Fine," I say, and close my eyes.

The truck rolls forward. I can feel the road change beneath us—smooth pavement giving way to gravel, then to something rougher, packed dirt maybe, with the occasional dip that makes Oliver's hand tighten on my thigh.

"If you're taking me somewhere to murder me, I want you to know that Jules has my location shared at all times and she will burn this county to the ground."

"Noted."

"Also, I'm four months pregnant and I will absolutely use that as a weapon. I'll sit on you."

"I'd enjoy that. Especially if you sat on my face.”

"Oliver."

He chuckles—that low, warm sound that still sends heat pooling in my belly. "We're almost there."

The truck slows. Stops. The engine ticks into silence.

I hear him shift, feel the weight of his gaze on me. His hand comes up and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear—gently, the way he touches everything now that involves me. Like I'm simultaneously the strongest and most precious thing he's ever held.

"Okay," he says quietly. "Open."

I open my eyes.

And my breath just—leaves.

We're parked at the end of a long gravel drive lined with young pecan trees, their branches just starting to fill out with late-summer leaves. The drive curves gently upward to a slight rise, and sitting on top of that rise, glowing warm and golden in the late-afternoon light, is a house.

Not just a house.

A farmhouse.

Two stories of white-painted wood and deep wrap-around porches, one on each story. Dark shutters frame every window. A red front door—the kind of red that's cheerful without being loud, the kind that says come in, you're welcome here. There's a porch swing hanging from chains on the left side, and flower beds that have been freshly turned, dark earth waiting for planting. A big oak tree shades the east side of the house, and beyond it, I can see the land rolling out in every direction—pasture and sky and the kind of open space that makes your chest expand just looking at it.