We’re married.
The thought hits Oliver in the middle of I-90 just outside Missoula.
“Fry me,” Connor says from the driver’s seat, leaning over an elbow on the console between them with his mouth wide open. His fingers are tapping along to the song on the radio and his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
Oliver turns in his seat a little, holding out a few French fries to feed Connor when he stops.
It’s something about the sunset filtering in the window bathing Connor in a halo of deep purple and dusty orange. It’s something about the way Connor’s hair is falling across his forehead; the normally perfect locks an artless tangle long overdue for a cut. It’s something about the glint in Connor’s eye when he glances over to see what’s taking Oliver so long. The look is teasing of course – by now Oliver expects little else – but under that it’s warm and loving and home.
It’s all of that and none of it but, either way, Oliver’s breath catches in his throat.
We. Are. Married.
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