Micah didn’t move right away.

He stayed there with her tucked against him, arm firm around her back, like if he loosened his hold even a fraction the moment might slip through his fingers. Her words had settled deep—surrounded, already everything they’d need—and they were doing dangerous, healing things to parts of him he usually kept locked up tight.

He let out a slow breath through his nose, a quiet laugh following it, soft and a little wrecked.

“You say stuff like that,” he murmured, voice warm and low against the crown of her head, “and then expect me to just… get up and make waffles like my heart didn’t just get absolutely drop-kicked before sunrise.”

His hand slid up and down her back once, grounding. Familiar. Protective. When she shifted, threatening movement, he tightened his arm just enough to stall her—not stopping her, just negotiating.

“Hold on,” he said gently, tipping his chin down so his lips brushed her hair. “One more second.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her, really look at her—eyes soft, mouth curved with that crooked, affectionate smile that only ever showed up with her. The one that said I’m joking but I’m also very serious about everything.

“You know what gets me?” he went on quietly. “It’s not the names. Or the legacy stuff. It’s that you see me the way you just described me… and you don’t hesitate. You don’t qualify it.”

His thumb brushed her shoulder, slow and reverent.

“I spent a long time worried I’d mess this up. Mess them up.” A beat. Then a small exhale. “You make it feel… possible. Safe.”

Then, because he was still very much Micah—and because letting things stay too tender for too long always made him itch—his smile turned playful again.

“Also,” he added, raising a brow, “for the record, I am extremely stable. I am a man who can absolutely be trusted with a waffle iron.”

He leaned in and kissed her—soft, lingering, affectionate rather than heated. A promise, not a distraction. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers.

“But I hear you,” he said. “Plates. Table. No syrup crimes.”

A pause.

“…I cannot promise there won’t be strawberries stolen directly off your plate.”

He finally shifted, rolling just enough to start untangling them, though his hand lingered at her waist like he wasn’t quite ready to let go of the bed—or the morning.

“Alright,” he sighed, dramatic and smiling. “Up. Before the quiet wears off. Before I fall asleep again and you revoke my waffle privileges.”

He slid out of bed, then paused, glancing back at her with that familiar, devastating softness.

“Hey,” he added. “Whatever happens next—baby or no baby, boy or girl—this morning?”

He smiled, sure and steady.

“Still choosing you.”

Mila stayed where she was for a second longer, watching him like she always did when he said things that landed deeper than he probably meant them to. Her hand lifted to his chest again, palm warm, grounding him right back.

She smiled first at his wrecked little protest, soft and fond.

“You’re very dramatic before coffee,” she murmured. “It’s one of your more endearing qualities.”

When he tightened his arm to stall her, she didn’t fight it. Just let herself settle, cheek brushing his collarbone, breathing him in while he took his second. She listened—really listened—when his voice dipped into that quiet, honest place he only trusted her with.

Her thumb traced slow circles over his shoulder as he spoke, a silent yes, I hear you.

“Hey,” she said gently when he finished, lifting her head so he couldn’t miss her eyes. “You don’t mess this up. You never have.”

She smiled, small but sure.

“You’re safe because you made yourself safe. You chose different. You choose different. Every day.” Her fingers slid up to his jaw, holding him there. “I don’t hesitate because I’ve watched you earn it.”

Then, because he shifted gears and she loved him for it, her smile turned playful again.

“Oh, I fully believe you think you’re stable,” she said sweetly. “That doesn’t mean I trust you around hot syrup unsupervised.”

She laughed when he mentioned strawberries, leaning in to press a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“You’re absolutely stealing strawberries,” she agreed. “I’ll allow it. But only because it’s Christmas-adjacent.”

As he finally started to move, she followed, sitting up slowly, tugging his shirt lightly when he paused so she could catch his attention again.

When he said it—still choosing you—her expression softened in that quiet, reverent way that never needed a sermon.

She reached for his hand, squeezing once.

“Good,” she said simply. “Because I’m still choosing you too.”

Then she smiled, warm and teasing, already shifting the moment forward like she always did.

Mila slipped out of the bed a moment later. She watched him for a second—barefoot, already halfway into the morning, carrying all that quiet certainty with him—and smiled to herself.

“Hey,” she called softly.

When he looked back, she lifted a hand.

“I’ll catch up,” she said. “I just need a minute to clean myself up.”

Her tone was easy, familiar—nothing rushed, nothing heavy. Just the gentle truth of a morning that had started slow and full and left its marks in the best way.

She stepped toward the bathroom, pausing in the doorway long enough to add, amused, “Go ahead and get the waffle iron out. I promise I’ll be there before you start thinking you’re a martyr.”

Then, softer—meant only for him—
“Don’t rush. I like knowing you’re right there.”

She disappeared into the bathroom, the door left cracked just enough to let the sound of him moving around the kitchen drift in. The clink of plates. A drawer opening. The quiet proof that the day was beginning.

Mila caught her reflection in the mirror, smoothed her hair back, took a steady breath.

Still choosing you.

She smiled to herself, turned on the sink, and let the moment settle—ready to meet him at the table and step into whatever came next.