Renna Rose Lancaster never searched for love.
She stumbled into it long before she was old enough to know what to call it.
It lived inside flower crowns that barely survived a minute on his head. Pebbles he slipped into her pockets because every tre...
"The theory says that there are an infinite number of universes,
And in those infinite number of universes there are an infinite number of ways we could have met and fallen apart,
And I'd like to think that in atleast some of them, you love me back the way I needed you in this one,
And we practice a forever instead of a maybe."
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The door creaked as I nudged it open, letting the shadow-drenched stillness of the room fold around me. No streetlights, no city hum-just an endless, ink-dark abyss of wilderness stretching into nothingness.
God, it was unreal being here. No PR team running my life, no staged dinner dates with random men, no handlers constantly breathing down my neck about brand image. Just a secluded sanctuary, and the reckless high of having my boyfriend all to myself. All night. In a closed room. With a door that actually locks.
My gown swept against the distressed floorboards as I shuffled over to the raised bed. Climbing onto the mattress, I pressed my forehead against the windowpane. A delicate, icy frost had webbed across the surface, blurring the pine trees into jagged silhouettes.
I dragged my index finger through the ice, carving out random lines without thinking. A star that looked drunk. A line that refused to stay straight. Then, a pathetic attempt at a wolf that looked less like a mythical predator and more like a rabies-ridden street cat that had been run over twice.
I snorted to myself, then wiped a clean patch of glass to draw something more embarassing: a giant, gaudy heart with an arrow running through the center. Inside the left curve, I etched A, and on the right, R.
I was just about to add a crown over the top when a sharp click echoed near the door. I whipped around, my shawl slipping down my arm.
Aadam kicked the door shut with his heel, flipping the bolt into place with a definitive thud. He didn't even bother with the zipper on his jacket; he just yanked the canvas over his head in one indifferent motion and dropped it onto his duffel in the corner. As he rolled his shoulders, his shoulder blades shifted under the thick wool of his jumper, shaking off the bitter mountain air we'd been dealing with all evening.
My heart didn't just skip a beat; it pulled a total malfunction.
He was actually wearing the cream cable-knit. The custom piece I'd blackmailed my favorite knitwear designer into crafting for him using his exact measurements-which I'd stolen off his old jackets when he wasn't looking
When I gave it to him back then, he'd just stared at it with his classic, unreadable expression, mumbled something that sounded vaguely like 'thanks,' and threw it into the depths of his wardrobe. I was convinced the stubborn idiot would rather freeze to death than use anything expensive I bought him with my daddy's money.
