“
Monday is November 8th,” he says softly. I nod, our eyes holding, the air charged with emotion. “Yeah. The timing is not lost on me.” It’s almost our one-year anniversary. But we’re not celebrating an engagement, or a marriage, or some kind of superficial milestone. We’re celebrating survival. And I will celebrate on Monday. I’ll celebrate by waking up extra early, watching the sunrise with my dogs and hot cup of coffee in hand, and breathing in the crisp, November air. Then I’ll smile. Because I have a hell of a lot to smile about. Dean reaches over the console to my lap, clasping my hand inside his palm. He brushes his fingers over my knuckles and says, “We fuckin’ made it.” A grin spreads across my face—a real, big, genuine grin. “Hell yeah, we did.
”
”