Only Ever Yours

“I’ve missed you so much,” I murmur, not caring that I’m talking to a fake man in my dream. I bring my hand up to his face and run it along his cheek, relishing in how real this all feels. When I wake up, I’ll feel the emptiness in my chest, but for right now, it’s like that hole is temporarily plugged, giving me a moment of reprieve.

I expect Isaac to tell me he’s missed me too, since this is my dream after all, so I’m a bit taken aback when instead, he glares at me, not saying a word. When we get outside, the bright sun that I haven’t seen in a few days nearly blinds me, forcing me to close my eyes and nestle my face into his chest. God, I’ve missed the safety and comfort of him.

A few seconds later, we’re sliding into a vehicle, and when I open my eyes and look around, I see it’s the inside of a limo. Isaac is still holding me, staring down at me with a mixture of what looks like awe and hurt in his features. I blink several times as I take him in. He looks so… real. I run a finger down the center of his nose and his brows furrow together.

“Say something,” I murmur, needing to hear his voice. I have no clue how long this dream is going to last and I need to hear him say something, anything.

“We’ll talk soon.” The coldness in his words has me doing a double take. I scramble up, trying to figure out what’s going on, but Isaac holds on to me, so I’m straddling his lap.

“Is this a dream?” I ask, lifting my hands to his head and running my fingers through his hair. He feels so real… so lifelike.

“More like a nightmare,” he mutters, making me flinch.

I glance around again, taking everything in—the vehicle, Isaac, his driver, the outside breezing by us—and then reach over and pinch my arm. Ow!

“Isaac…” I say slowly, scared to hear his answer. “Is this a dream?”

His brows pinch together. “What are you talking about?”

“Am I sleeping?” This can’t be real. He can’t be alive. I can’t really be sitting in the car with him, in his lap.

“Cam, are you okay?” His hard features morph into concern, showing me my Isaac, and my heart clenches in my chest.

“You’re alive,” I breathe, pressing my hands to the sides of his face. “I’m not dreaming. You’re really alive.” I lean forward and kiss him softly on the lips.

I can feel him.

Taste him.

Needing to test my theory again, I kiss his scratchy cheek and then the other one. Then I kiss his neck, inhaling his scent. “Oh my God! You’re alive,” I shriek.

“You sound like you care,” he mumbles.

I’m about to ask him why the hell I wouldn’t care that he’s alive, when the vehicle comes to a stop and Isaac swings the door open, edging out of the limo with me in his arms. When he steps outside, he tries to set me down, but I wrap my legs around his waist, locking my ankles, and cling to him like a koala bear. A million different thoughts are invading my brain. I’ve either died and joined Isaac in heaven, I’m having the most real dream ever, or Isaac is alive. No matter which one is reality, I’m not letting go of him any time soon.

He thanks his driver and tells him he won’t be needing him anymore today, then starts walking up the drive with me attached to him. I twist my head to see where we are, but I don’t recognize the place. It’s a two-story home with colonial-style pillars that hold up the second floor wraparound porch. It’s beautiful, but looks like it’s been neglected for a while. The grass is on the tall side, needing to be mowed, flowerbeds that probably once housed pretty flowers are filled with weeds, and the walls of the house are a bit dirty.

“Where are we?” I ask, my body shaking in shock, as he shifts me slightly to unlock the door.

“My family home.”

He walks us inside and the interior is gorgeous. Marble floors throughout, a spiraling staircase leading upstairs. A fountain—yes, a freaking fountain—is in the center of the foyer.

He takes us straight through to the living room, sitting us on one of the couches. There’s a stunning fireplace and over it is a large painting of what looks to be a younger Isaac and… “Those are your parents,” I say, pointing out the obvious.

“Yeah. The picture was taken the day of my high school graduation and my dad had it painted for my mom as a gift.”

He settles us on the couch, and when he goes to move me to sit next to him, I refuse. “Stop trying to push me away.” I pout. “I haven’t felt you in months.”