I'll be the sun.
You'll be the moon.
Just let your light come shining through, and when night comes, just like the moon.
I'll shine my light right back at you.
As the sun gradually begins to set, nightfall arrives. Contagious laughter that once was...
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"I went to sleep last night with a smile because I knew I'd be dreaming of you, but I woke up this morning with a smile because you weren't a dream." – Unknown
When I was twelve, my parents' laughter woke me up every morning. It would drift through the house like music, pulling me from sleep and leading me straight to the living room.
And there they'd be—dancing.
My father would twirl my mother around, her laughter echoing off the walls as if they were the only two people in the world. They never noticed me right away, lost in their own little universe. It was our unspoken game. The moment I cleared my throat or deliberately shuffled my feet, my father would finally turn, grin, and sweep me up between them.
I'd squeal and try to escape, but their arms always held me tight, cocooning me in warmth.
Looking back, I'd give anything—anything—for just one more dance.
A sharp, grating voice yanked me from my thoughts, shattering the warmth of the memory like glass hitting the floor.
"—and remember," my boss droned on, her tone filled with the enthusiasm of a funeral director, "the CEO is visiting today. He will be observing how you perform, judging you harder than your high school teachers ever did."
Lovely. Just what I needed.
I tried to focus, but my heart had already started its frantic drumroll. I hated being the center of attention. Just the thought of someone watching me made my hands clammy. That's why I'd chosen this job—quiet, solitary, hidden behind stacks of manuscripts where no one expected me to be outgoing or charismatic.
Except for one person.
"Girl, you have to stop zoning out like that," Sandy's voice cut in, pulling me back to the present.
I just shrugged, not trusting myself to say anything that wouldn't make me sound completely unhinged. She sighed, clearly unimpressed, but let it slide.
We parted ways as I entered my small office, sighing in relief. The moment I sat down, I lost myself in my work—sifting through manuscripts, weighing their potential, getting absorbed in worlds far removed from my own. Time blurred.
Which is probably why I didn't hear the door open.
But I did hear the voice.
Deep. Smooth. Like honey drizzled over warm toast.
"Miss Winters?"
I jerked upright, the book slipping from my hands as my heart practically lunged out of my chest.
Oh.
Oh, no.
Standing in front of me was a man who looked like he belonged on the cover of the very books I read.
