“This is what I want to do,” he spoke. “Live and write romances and let life take care of rest.”
She knew he meant it.
“It’s a beautiful way of fictions,” she answered wishing it could live and last as more.
“Maybe it could be real,” he spoke looking out on the rich and deep of green in new-blade grass emerged and warmed from snow blanket’s cover.
“Maybe,” she answered unknowing what more to say but knew: she desired same one-dream.