Wyatt breathed out a slow laugh, soft and wrecked and full of every emotion he wasn’t great at naming.

God, he loved her.

He loved them—this whole sticky, sun-warmed, juice-stained mess of a family he never thought he’d be lucky enough to hold.

And it wasn’t just the big stuff. It was this. The quiet. The teasing. The way Evie somehow knew the exact second his heart got too loud and gave him space without making him feel like he was disappearing. The way Arlo had managed to weaponize pudding into a full-blown personality trait. The way they fit—not perfect, not clean, but real.

He shifted slightly, sliding a hand over Arlo’s back, palm wide across the tiny rise and fall of their son’s breath. “He’s not wrong, you know,” he murmured, finally finding his voice again. “Strongest muscles in the tri-county area. Confirmed.”

Arlo gave a sleepy, self-satisfied hum and nuzzled into Evie’s shoulder like he knew exactly how adored he was.

Wyatt looked at her then.

Really looked.

At the curls half falling out of her braid. At the smudge of something red on her jaw that was probably popsicle-related. At the curve of her mouth, still half-sassy from the British accent threat, and half-soft with the kind of love that used to knock him flat. Still did, if he was being honest.

“I wasn’t lost,” he said quietly. “Just… taking inventory.”

He saw her eyebrow twitch, just barely. She wanted to poke fun. Wanted to give him hell for being poetic when she knew he hadn’t read a book voluntarily since 2011.

But she didn’t.

She just leaned her head against his, Arlo snug between them, and let him keep going.

“I do that sometimes,” he murmured, voice rough. “When it gets too good. I stop and just… try to remember it exactly. The way your laugh sounds when you’re pretending to faint. The way he says ‘Evie bird’ like it’s an actual species. The way this—all of this—feels like something I never want to forget.”

He swallowed hard.

“And I don’t want to miss it, Evie. Not even for a second.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was full. Sacred.

And then—because she’d teed it up, because someone had to answer the child—Wyatt cleared his throat, adopted the worst British accent known to man, and said solemnly:

“Well, you see, m’lord Arlo of House Rascal, pudding is a sacred rite passed down to those with extraordinary biceps and questionable nap schedules.”

Arlo’s eyes flew open. “I HAVE BICEPS?”

“You have legendary biceps,” Wyatt said gravely. “But I fear the pudding tax has increased. One must now recite the national anthem of the backyard kingdom to receive it.”

Arlo gasped. “What’s the anthem?!”

Wyatt looked at Evie. Deadpan.

“I believe it starts with ‘I want snacks, I want snacks, I want juice and snacks’ and then repeats for eight stanzas.”

Evie lost it.

Full-body laugh, eyes crinkling, arm tightening around their son. And just like that, the weight Wyatt had been carrying all day—the quiet swirl in his chest, the ache of trying to hold joy like it might slip—lightened.

Because they were here.

Together.

And he’d remember this, too.

Always.

Jeremy didn’t speak at first.

Didn’t rush to fix it, didn’t flinch at the crack in her voice or the raw truth trembling underneath it.

He just held her.

Held her like he’d meant to from the beginning. Like her stillness was sacred and the storm was something he’d already chosen to stand inside.

Michaela’s words echoed in his chest, slow and deliberate. Not a plea. Not a test. Just truth—unvarnished and real in a way that hit him deeper than any vow ever had.

He watched her thumb trace over Hanna’s tiny hand. Saw how carefully she held their daughter, how tightly she held herself.

And God, he loved her for it.

Not just the way she protected. But the way she kept trying even when it hurt. The way she told the truth even when her voice shook. The way she still showed up—bruised, scared, hopeful.

Jeremy brushed his fingers down her arm. Not to soothe, not to hush. Just to remind her: I’m here. I see you.

And then—because she needed to hear it, and he needed to say it—he leaned forward. Close enough to feel the way her breath hitched, to watch the moment her eyes flicked up to meet his again.

“I never stayed to be impressed by your strength,” he said quietly. “I stayed because I love you.”

His hand found hers—fingers curling tight. Grounding. Certain.

“I love the woman who reads parenting books at two a.m. and pretends she doesn’t cry at Bluey,” he said, lips brushing a ghost of a smile against her temple. “The one who triple-checks sunscreen and gets a little too competitive during bathtime songs.”

She let out a breath of a laugh—wet and surprised—and he felt it crack something open between them.

“I love the version of you that’s still learning,” he said. “The one who thinks she’s too much and still shows up anyway. That’s the part that wrecks me, Michaela. Not your armor. You.”

Her chin trembled just slightly, but she didn’t look away.

So he kept going. Kept steady.

“I’m not waiting for the other shoe to drop,” he said. “I’m already in it. All of it. The hard parts, the healing, the ‘trying again even when it hurts’ part. I want all of that with you.”

His voice softened.

“I want that for her too.”

He looked down at Hanna—now half-asleep between them, one sock sagging, curls wild from play, the kind of peace on her face that Jeremy would tear the world apart to protect.

“She’s gonna know love doesn’t mean disappearing,” he said. “She’s gonna know it can stay.”

His thumb brushed the back of Michaela’s hand again.

“And you’re allowed to want that too,” he added. “Not because you earned it. Just because you’re allowed.”

There was a silence after that—not empty, but full. The kind that hummed with the knowing. The kind that meant something had shifted.

Then, softly, Jeremy tilted his head and whispered—

“You don’t have to run anymore, Michaela.”

A beat passed.

Then another.

“You’re already home.”

And with Hanna curled warm between them, her breathing deep and even—

Michaela didn’t pull away.

She stayed.

Evie didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t rush to fill the moment, didn’t deflect with a joke—even though one sat easy on her tongue.

Instead, she watched Arlo blink slow against her collarbone, thumb still curled in Wyatt’s shirt, the other hand dangling, sticky and warm, over her arm.

His curls were a mess of sweat and crumbs, lashes spiky, cheeks flushed. And she couldn’t stop staring. Couldn’t stop memorizing this exact second, like if she held it tight enough, it might never fade.

She shifted her weight slightly, adjusting Arlo higher on her hip, and felt his tiny body sigh into hers—boneless and full of trust, like he knew without thinking that she was his safest place.

God.

This was the dream, wasn’t it?

Not the perfect one. Not the one she scribbled in journals at seventeen with glitter pens and too many hearts in the margins. But the real one. The one that grew roots in the middle of mess and morning breath and old fights and second chances.

“I used to think we’d never get here,” she said softly, eyes still on Arlo’s cheek. “Like, really get here.”

Her voice wavered, but she didn’t try to stop it.

“I didn’t think I’d get to know what this felt like… to just be full. Not scared. Not waiting for the floor to give out. Just—standing in the middle of it and not wanting to change a thing.”

She finally glanced at Wyatt then, heart thudding.

“I’m proud of us.”

Her fingers brushed the back of Arlo’s little leg, grounding herself.

“Not just because we made it through the worst parts, but because we chose to stay after. Chose to do the boring stuff. The hard stuff. The therapy, the sleepless nights, the groceries, the fights where we learned how to come back from it instead of blow it up.”

Arlo gave a tiny huff, shifting against her chest, his thumb dragging lazily across her tank top strap.

She smiled down at him, brushing a hand over his curls.

“I used to think love was supposed to feel like a firework,” she said, softer now. “But this? This is better. This is warm juice on your shoulder and Goldfish in your back pocket and someone who never lets go, even when you’re impossible to hold.”

Her gaze flicked back to Wyatt, catching the way he was looking at them—like he’d never stop.

She smiled, slow and sure.

“And I don’t care how many teeth he loses trying to turn sidewalk chalk into a snack. This kid is the best thing we’ve ever done.”

Arlo lifted his head, bleary but still fighting sleep, and pointed blearily at Wyatt’s hand.

“Dat’s mine,” he mumbled. “My daddy hand.”

Evie’s throat tightened.

She tucked him in closer, kissed the top of his sweaty hair, and murmured—

“You can borrow him, baby. I’ll share.”

Arlo blinked up at her like she was the moon, then leaned his forehead into her chin and sighed, already halfway to dreams.

Evie looked up again, eyes shining, but her smile never faltered.

Because she meant it.

Every word.

And she knew—deep down, like marrow—that she wouldn’t trade this version of their story for anything.

Not even the glitter-pen version.

Because this one?

This one stayed.