Magnolia Steel

Alex steps off the plane. No crutches. No limp. Only that easy, confident walk I haven’t seen in in a long time.

He’s wearing jeans, a fitted black T-shirt that hugs the muscles he’s fought like hell to build, and a soft grin that hits me dead center. My heart does this slow, twisting ache thing in my chest as I watch him close the distance. Because I know what it took to get here. Every painful stretch. Every night icing down his ankle, frustrated and quiet.

When he reaches me, he doesn’t say a word. Just pulls me into his arms like he can’t help it. One hand curves around the back of my neck. The other fists in the fabric at my waist. And he kisses me—slow, deep, and purposeful. Like we’re not in a public place with people milling around us. Like it’s just us.

I melt into it.

When we pull apart, I whisper against his mouth, “Well, look at you. Graduated and everything.”

“Top of my class. Straight A’s in range-of-motion exercise.”

I laugh, my hands still resting on his chest. “I’m proud of you, big guy.”

His mouth curves. “Yeah, well… you’re my reward.”

Alex tosses his suitcase into the back of my car and slides into the passenger seat like he’s been doing it forever. The sight of it—the casualness, the comfort—makes me smile.

I slide into the driver’s seat and glance over at him. “So. What’s the plan, graduate? You want to eat in or grab some pizza or go out?”

He leans his head back against the seat, eyes closed for a second like he’s soaking it all in. Then he turns his head toward me, grin lazy and a little too charming.

“Let’s go out and celebrate the end of PT. Get back to normal. Move on with our lives.”

My heart tugs a little, but I keep it light. “Okay. Where do you want to go?”

He lifts a brow. “What about that French place you love—the one with the champagne risotto and the waitlist from hell?”

“Le Rue?” I laugh. “Alex, I don’t think we can walk in. It takes weeks to get a reservation there.”

He smirks and shrugs. “Leave it to me. I’ll take care of it.”

That wink he throws in shouldn’t work—but on him, it does.

I shake my head as I pull out of the airport lot. “What are you gonna do? Slip the host some money?”

“Maybe,” he says, grinning.

There’s something simmering beneath his surface. Something electric. And though he has said nothing, a question rises in the back of my mind, unshakable and quiet: What are you up to, Sebring?

His phone buzzes twice. He checks it both times. Thumbs out a reply.

“Everything okay?” I ask, keeping my eyes on the road.