awake and picture you—older, somewhere out in the world—and wonder if you still remembered that night in the truck.” My throat tightened. Because of course I remembered. Every second. “You looked up at the stars like they were the only thing that made sense,” he went on. “And when I told you I thought you were my one…you didn’t say anything.” His smile flickered. Familiar and aching. With something deeper than memory. “But I meant it. I still mean it. And I don’t need stars or fate or anything else to tell me. I just need you.” The lights, the noise, the crowd—gone. Just him and me and the
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