If I've learnt anything about Isaac this past month, it's that he's perhaps the most unruffled person in the universe. That is, he's unruffled until he cares about you. It's a relatively small circle of people for whom he'd become ruffled over, and I'm lucky to be within it, although, if he's to be believed, I never left.

Unfortunately, I don't quite believe him.

I should, I know, but I'm not perfect.

I'm someone who has irrational outbursts, hates airport car parks and loves coffee. Someone who paints watercolour dreams and sketches the world as it twirls by. Someone who would die for a Smartie McFlurry. Someone who would, embarrassingly, die for Isaac too.

That last one is progress. A few months ago, I might've said I'm someone who would kill Isaac, but now, I'd jump in front of the stray bullet that is pre-Portugal Lizzie.

Anyway, the point is that I'm far from perfect, but who needs to be?

There's a knock on the summer house door, forcing me to glance at the window. Isaac comes into view, a massive grin slapped across his face. He's holding two boxes and has one of my canvas bags slung over his shoulder.

"Let me in," he shouts.

I stick my tongue out and shake my head.

"I have hazelnut croissants," he says, his voice sing-songy and taunting.

I shrug. He makes a show of pretending to open one of the boxes, the chocolate-dipped pastry exposed in all its flaky glory, until I relent and throw open the door, allowing him to crash in and collapse onto the sofa.

"I knew you couldn't resist me."

"Resist you?" I laugh, leaping across the summer house for a bite of croissant. "I couldn't resist this." I wave it in front of his face.

"Pretend all you like, but we both know the truth."

"What? That if it came down to you or the croissant, the croissant wins every time."

"What about me and a Mcflurry?" he asks.

"Depends on the flavour."

"Me and an Oreo Mcflurry?"

"You." I lean forward and kiss—well, that is, I kiss the corner of his lips.

"What about a Smartie Mcflurry and me?"

"It's a tough call," I admit as I take a thoughtful bite of my croissant. "But I guess I could do without you."

"Good to know where I stand," he laughs, swiping the other croissant before I can.

"You know how I feel about you."

"How can I know when you've never said those three little words?"

"Some of us aren't exhibitionists," I groan. "We don't all have to wear our hearts on our sleeves."

Both his eyebrows shoot into his hairline, and I can't help but bury my face in his chest. "You make me," I mumble into the thin material of his cotton t-shirt as I remember all the stolen moments in not so private places. "I was never like this before."

"Don't pretend you don't like it."

"Of course I like it." A little too much. "But it doesn't make me the open book in our relationship. That's your job. You're the one who steals kisses, the one who says those three little words."

"So I can never expect to hear them from you?"

I creep out from his chest. "I can certainly show you."

"And how are you going to do that?" he asks.

"Just you wait and see."

I wanted to save the paintings for Christmas, for the frosty air and earthy scent of pine. I'd planned to wrap them in streams of green paper with bronze ribbons. In all honesty, I was going to tell him I loved him when he tore through the paper and spotted the familiar blue tiles. But Isaac's something of an early bloomer, so Christmas is going to have to be now. Which isn't too bad when I think about it. After all, it's our last day together before he stays here, and I leave, heading north and stopping once I hit Sheffield. If there's ever a time to tell him, to be honest, it's now.

The house is silent, deathly so. I interrupt it as I storm the stairs and burst into my bedroom. The paintings are hidden beneath my bed, on top of the pile closest to the wall. I shimmy them out, brush off the dust, and sigh.

This is it.

Isaac is right where I left him. He's left half his croissant, which is proof enough of how stupid I'd be to not tell him, and offers it the moment I return, his smile melting me and putting me right back together again.

"You're so cheesy," I groan.

"You love it."

"You're not going to get it out of me like that."

"I'm not?" He glances at my hands, or rather, the two canvases within them.

"Nope."

"But what about those?" He nods at the paintings. "Will those get it out of you?"

"You'll have to wait and see."

"How mysterious."

I roll my eyes and square my shoulders. "These were meant for Christmas," I say. "But, I'm leaving tomorrow, and I guess I want you to have a piece of me while we're both away at uni."

I step towards him, taking another step and another until I'm sitting beside him, the paintings still smooshed against my boobs. I glance down at them, smiling softly, and sigh.

"Don't laugh," I whisper.

He only smiles.

I place one on his lap and the other on mine. The one on his is newer, the technique more precise, the style certain. It's what I started when we got back, what I finished the night I found him in Kismit. He sits on a pew, his side profile sharp and angular, his eyes focused on the alter. But it's the tiles that steal the show. Each one is detailed in dripping ink, the individuals coming together to create an entirely original mural of our twin villas.

"You did this?" he runs a finger along the alter, the slightest smile appearing as he does.

"Of course I did."

"And this one?" He stares at the painting in my lap. "When did you do it?"

"Now, you really can't laugh," I say.

"I won't." He's sincere, solemn, and I know I can't turn back.

"Well, remember when we first fought?"

"How could I forget."

"Well, around November time, I guess I really missed you, so I painted this for Christmas to prove that you'll always have me, and I'll always have you. But then Christmas came, and we weren't exactly talking, so I hid it and forgot about it until about two months ago. But then Spencer was, well, Spencer, and I guess I forgot about it again. But now, nothing's getting in the way, and I can't forget how I feel about you. I can't forget that I...well, that I love you."

A breathtaking smile brightens his face as he wriggles closer and reaches for my cheek. "I love you too," he says, his lips brushing against mine.

It's like the world stills, and it's just the two of us, here, there, everywhere. Then Isaac pulls back, his forehead resting against mine and says, "So if it were actually between a Smartie McFlurry and me, I would win, right?"

"God, no."

He laughs, and I can't help but kiss him because, at the end of the day, we both know that when it comes down to it, it's him, always. And this time, nothing's going to change that. Not uni and certainly not the distance. We're not twelve anymore; we've got this.

***

Ahhhhhhh!

I can't believe I actually finished Bliss. I started this in September 2020, but life kept on getting in the way (I'm looking at you uni) and I lost my motivation to finish it. Then I picked it back up in around May when I should've been studying for exams and I just couldn't keep it as a novella. And now, thankfully, we're here.

I hope you guys enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Lizzie will always have a soft spot in my heart, and who knows, in the future there might be a little sequel on the horizons now we know they're off too different universities.

So, for the final time:

I hope you enjoyed the epilogue. If you did, please remember to share, comment and vote.

xxx