Mason didn’t even try to hide the grin that was pulling at his face.

Not when she kissed him with marshmallow on her lips. Not when she whispered I love this life like it wasn’t the single most important sentence he’d ever heard fall out of someone’s mouth. Not when she looked around at a kitchen full of wreckage and still somehow called it home.

Because it was.

Not just the place.

Her.

The life they were building—sticky-fingered, smoke-scented, soft around the edges—it was her. And he’d burn every meatloaf from now until forever if it meant coming back to this version of her every night.

The one who let herself want things.

The one who believed she didn’t have to be perfect to be kept.

He glanced over at her, perched on the counter like she belonged there, sweater sleeves pushed to her elbows, floral dress wrinkled, eyes full of something soft and wild and real.

And God.

He was gone.

“You love this life,” he repeated quietly, voice low like he didn’t want to break the moment. “Ro… I’ve been waiting my whole damn life to hear you say that.”

He reached over and brushed his thumb gently across the corner of her mouth, wiping away a smudge of sugar like it was holy.

“You don’t know what it does to me—seeing you let yourself be happy. Not perfect. Not curated. Just… you. Here. In this kitchen. In your favorite sweater and socks that don’t match.”

He rested his forehead against hers.

“I’m gonna marry the hell out of you.”

He didn’t say it like a proposal. He said it like a promise.

Because he meant it.

Not just the wedding. Not just the big moments with vows and champagne and a playlist full of their songs. But the rest of it.

The Tuesday nights when everything burns and they eat cereal in mugs. The Sunday mornings when she’s quiet and curled into his side. The bad days. The boring ones. The beautiful, ridiculous, unfiltered life they were already living.

That’s what he wanted forever to look like.

Mason leaned back just enough to look at her again—really look—and felt his heart ache with how lucky he was.

Not because she let him in.

But because she stayed.

And she wasn’t just staying in his life anymore.

She was building it with him.

He picked up another marshmallow, stabbed it with the fork, and held it up like it was something sacred.

“To the mess,” he said, smiling.

“To meatloaf disasters. To cereal for dinner. To you and me and every burned corner and soft middle and half-laughed, half-cried night we’ve got coming.”

He held the marshmallow over the flame until it turned golden and cracked, then blew it out and offered it to her.

“I’m all in, Ro. For every version of this.”

She took it—of course she did.

And when she bit into it and smiled like it meant something?

Mason knew.

He wasn’t waiting for life to start anymore.

It already had.

Rowan didn’t speak right away.

Couldn’t, honestly.

Because everything about the moment—the warmth of the stove still lingering in the air, the sugary smoke curling around them like a second kind of gravity, the way his words settled into her like they belonged there—made her feel like her whole chest was one deep breath away from splitting open.

He said he was all in.

Like it was simple. Like it wasn’t the scariest and most beautiful thing she’d ever been handed without strings.

She stared at the marshmallow in her hand for a second longer than necessary, then popped it into her mouth, chewing slowly like it might help ground her.

It didn’t.

She was already floating.

And not in the way she used to when things felt too good to be true—tense, ready to fall.

This was different.

This felt… safe.

Real.

She leaned forward, chin propped on her palm again, eyes locked on his. That crooked smile. That firelight in his gaze. That voice still echoing in her head like a vow.

I’m gonna marry the hell out of you.

God, she could feel the truth of it settling beneath her ribs.

“You’re gonna regret saying that,” she murmured, lips quirking into something wicked-soft, “when I turn into a complete menace over table centerpieces and try to order our wedding cake from a place that exclusively sells things shaped like ghosts.”

Her voice was teasing. But her eyes—her eyes were full of something else entirely.

Wonder. Gratitude. That slowly growing belief she didn’t have to earn this.

She pushed her cereal bowl aside and swung her legs gently against the counter, reaching for the hem of his hoodie and curling her fingers in it.

“I’m not used to being chosen like this,” she said softly, almost absently. “Like the mess isn’t something people try to fix or survive. Like it’s part of the reason you want to stay.”

She looked at him then. Really looked.

And she let herself believe it.

Let herself want the Tuesday nights and the cereal spoons and the slightly-too-charred marshmallows and the boy who never asked her to be anything but exactly herself.

Then she reached up, tugged his hoodie just enough to bring him back to her mouth, and kissed him slow.

It wasn’t loud or showy.

It was promise. It was thanks. It was I want this too.

And when she pulled back, eyes bright, voice steady, she added—

“You’re gonna be stuck with me for a long time, Hayes.”

Like it wasn’t a threat.

Like it was a gift.

Because it was.

Mason didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t dare do anything that might break the gravity of her fingers curled in his hoodie, or the way her mouth had just fit against his like a vow instead of a kiss.

Because Rowan Starling—this version of her, messy and magic and trusting him with pieces of herself she used to hide—had just told him he was stuck with her.

And Mason?

He couldn’t imagine anything better.

He felt it in his chest, sharp and quiet, the way her voice softened when she said she wasn’t used to being chosen like this. Not loudly. Not out of obligation. But because someone saw every crack and loved her not in spite of them—but because of them.

He looked at her—legs swinging against the counter, cardigan sleeves pushed back, marshmallow sugar on her fingers and a firelight gleam in her eyes—and thought:

This is it.

This is the girl he gets to wake up next to for the rest of his life. The girl he gets to make dinner with, mess up recipes for, dance barefoot in the kitchen with at 11 p.m. when the smoke alarm’s finally stopped beeping.

He reached up, gently ran his thumb over her jaw, and let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh—more of a soft holy shit.

“Stuck with you?” he said, voice low and a little ragged. “Ro, you’re the best part of the plan.”

He leaned in, their foreheads brushing now.

“I want the ghost cake. The centerpiece arguments. The stress breakdown in aisle six over mismatched napkins. I want every second of it, even the parts that drive us both nuts.”

A smile tugged at his lips.

“I especially want the part where you’re still sitting on this counter in ten years, talking trash while we burn frozen pizza and raise kids who think marshmallows count as dinner.”

He bumped her knee with his, a soft nudge that felt like forever.

“You don’t have to get used to being chosen,” he said. “Just get used to me never stopping.”

And it wasn’t just something sweet to say.

It was the whole truth of him.

Because she could test him, push him, tease him, challenge every part of the life they were building—and he’d still be here. Arms wide. Hoodie soft. Spoon ready.

Because choosing her wasn’t a hard thing.

It was breathing.

He kissed her then, slow and sure, like he was sealing something in place.

Not a moment.

A life.

And when he pulled back, eyes bright and chest full in that achey, delicious way love tends to hit at 2 a.m., he just whispered:

“You’re my home, Rowan. Always.”

Then he grabbed the marshmallow bag again and grinned.

“Now come on. Let’s burn dessert like it's a ritual. You’ve got years of chaos to plan, and I wanna be fully sugared up when you pick ghost-shaped invitations.”

Rowan didn’t look away.

Didn’t blink, didn’t flinch—just let herself feel it. Let herself sit in the warmth of his words like they were a blanket thrown over all the cold places she used to keep hidden.

Because he meant it.

Not just the kiss. Not just the forehead press or the ghost cake jokes or the soft holy-shit way he looked at her like she was everything. He meant all of it.

He meant her.

And God, she was still learning how to hold that.

Still figuring out how to let someone see every frayed edge and choose her anyway. Not because she was shiny or impressive or got the meatloaf right—but because she was Rowan. Chaos and care and dry sarcasm and second-guessing and all.

Her voice wavered, just slightly.

“You know you’re gonna regret giving me full control over the wedding theme, right?” she said, soft but teasing, her fingers toying with the edge of his hoodie again. “I’ve got a saved folder called ‘spooky but sentimental.’ You have no idea what’s coming for you.”

But her eyes were still glassy. Still open in that way she never used to let herself be.

Because the truth was?

She didn’t care about the cake. Or the centerpiece meltdown. Or even the vows, not really.

She just cared that he was still here. That he was going to be.

Always.

“You say I’m your home,” she murmured, letting her palm flatten lightly against his chest, “but you feel like mine too.”

It was quieter than her usual comebacks. Less armor. More ache.

She looked up at him, all steady eyes and slight smirk.

“And if we’re doing this marshmallow-burning, forever-mess kind of thing…” Her thumb brushed the cotton over his heartbeat. “You better be ready to dance with me in the kitchen at seventy, because I plan on playing our stupid playlists at full volume until the neighbors hate us.”

She grinned now, real and wide, and pulled the marshmallow bag out of his hand like she was claiming something holy.

“Now hand me a fork, Hayes.”

A beat.

“Let’s burn some sugar and call it a win.”

Because this was what they were.

Disaster dinners. Soft confessions. Love that didn’t need permission.

And for the first time in her life, Rowan didn’t want to run from it.

She wanted to stay.

Rowan stabbed a marshmallow with the kind of precision that only came from years of pent-up emotion and a lifelong avoidance of fully letting her guard down. But now? Tonight? She wasn’t hiding.

She held the marshmallow out toward the flame, watching it puff and blacken slightly at the edges.

Her voice came out casual, like she hadn’t rehearsed it in her head five times already.

“So, uh. My dad offered up his office,” she said, rotating the marshmallow slowly, her eyes on the tiny blaze. “Said it made more sense than cramming a crib into my closet. Figured Indy could use more than a sliver of wall space and a dream.”

She glanced at Mason, cheeks already warming from both the fire and the weight of the words. “He even boxed up all his stuff last night. Said he was ready for her. That we all were.”

The marshmallow caught fire for half a second—Rowan blew it out before it turned to charcoal and handed it to Mason like it was no big deal. But her fingers lingered near his for a beat too long.

She didn’t need him to say anything. Didn’t need a speech.

She just needed him to know that this—this family, this life—they were all in. That it wasn’t just her anymore, slowly unfolding around the edges. Her parents were too. Offering rooms. Making space. Believing.

She leaned her head on his shoulder, marshmallow smoke still curling in the air around them.

“I didn’t ask him,” she murmured. “He just… did it.”

A pause.

“I think part of me didn’t believe they’d really want this. Not like this. Not now. But I was wrong.”

She didn’t cry this time.

Didn’t fall apart.

She just breathed in, let it fill the quiet.

“They want her. They already love her.”

She tilted her chin toward him, half-smile playing on her lips now. “That office was sacred ground, you know. Printer from the Jurassic era. Framed crossword puzzle from 1998. The man once threatened to haunt me if I moved his stapler.”

She bumped her knee against his gently, soft and warm and full of something weightless.

“But he gave it up for her. Just like that.”

And in her voice—underneath the sarcasm and the steady—was that glimmer again. The one that said maybe, just maybe, she was starting to believe this whole thing could actually be beautiful.

Mason took the marshmallow from her fingers like it was breakable.

Not because it was molten sugar. But because it came with something else—something bigger. A weight she hadn’t named, but offered all the same.

Her dad gave up his office.

Without being asked.

Without conditions.

Just did it.

Mason didn’t say anything at first. He couldn’t. Not with the way his chest had gone all tight and aching and full in the space of a heartbeat. Not with the way Rowan leaned her head against his shoulder like she finally believed she didn’t have to carry everything alone.

He just sat there, quietly stunned, the charred marshmallow resting in his hand like some kind of sacred offering.

And maybe it was.

Because this wasn’t just about a room. It wasn’t just about drawers or wall space or turning sacred stapler territory into a nursery.

This was belonging.

This was Rowan’s past—sharp-edged and private—opening.

And letting him, letting Indy, step fully into it.

He turned slightly, enough to press a kiss into her hair.

“You didn’t have to ask,” he echoed softly. “Because they already see her as theirs.”

He didn’t say I told you so. Didn’t joke. Didn’t pull it into something lighter.

Because this was not light.

This was weight in the best way.

This was her dad boxing up pieces of his identity and saying, This matters more.

Mason let out a slow breath, his thumb brushing lightly against her knee where it had bumped his.

“You realize,” he murmured, “you just casually told me that your dad—Captain Stapler Defense—voluntarily gave up his sacred zone without even being bribed?”

He tilted his head just enough to see her face, the smile she was fighting off, the way her eyes still held that soft shine even beneath the sarcasm.

“That man once made me sign a guestbook to borrow a pen,” he added. “And now he’s clearing out decades of office clutter so his granddaughter has room to nap and scream and throw teething rings at the walls.”

He exhaled a quiet laugh, something amazed and tender.

“I don’t think I’ve ever loved your family more.”

He meant it. Every word.

Because this wasn’t just Rowan believing. It was her whole world leaning forward and making room for a future they hadn’t planned—but wanted. Fully. Fiercely. Without hesitation.

Mason turned back to the flame, finally roasting his own marshmallow, rotating the fork slowly between his fingers.

“I hope she grows up knowing she was never an accident,” he said after a beat. “That from the second she existed, she had people making space. Moving things. Rearranging whole lives just so she’d know she belonged.”

He looked back at Rowan—her cardigan sleeves pushed to her elbows, hair falling over her eyes, hands sticky with sugar and heart wide open.

“And I hope she sees how brave her mom is.”

He didn’t say it to make her cry.

He said it because it was true.

Because this—this life they were building in charred desserts and quiet evenings—was full of more courage than anything he’d ever seen on a field or stage.

He handed her his marshmallow.

Burned just enough. Gooey at the center.

“Here,” he said. “Trade you for another truth.”

A beat.

“I love this life too.”

And he did.

So much it scared him sometimes.

But he wasn’t running.

Not from her. Not from this.

Because she was the kind of story he wanted to live inside of. Forever.

Rowan didn’t say anything right away.

She just looked at him—really looked—like maybe this was the first time she was letting herself feel how big it all was. How safe. How loved. Like it wasn’t just Mason who wanted this life with her—but her whole family, folding her new beginning into theirs like it had always belonged there.

Her fingers curled softly into the cuff of his sleeve. She didn’t pull. Didn’t squeeze. Just held on, like she needed that tiny point of contact to keep from floating away entirely.

“He boxed it all up,” she murmured, eyes still on the half-melted marshmallow in his hand. “The framed comic strips. The old computer. Even the mug with the ‘World’s Okayest Lawyer’ label he swore was ironic.”

A pause. A shaky little breath.

“He said it was time to make space for something better.”

Her voice cracked a little on the word better. But she didn’t try to hide it. Not this time.

Because maybe this was the part she didn’t talk about. The part that never felt quite hers—the idea that softness could exist without being torn apart. That her mistakes didn’t cancel out her worth. That something she helped make could be wanted so fiercely, so easily.

“I didn’t even ask him,” she added. “Didn’t say a word.”

And maybe that was the part that undid her the most.

Because for so long, love had felt like something she had to chase. Something conditional. Something earned. But now—now it showed up in a room being emptied. In Mason’s hand brushing hers. In the marshmallow he gave her just because.

She took it.

And when she bit into it, when the sugar stuck to the corner of her lip and the warmth hit her tongue, she laughed.

A real one.

Small and soft and alive.

Then, eyes glinting under the kitchen light, she leaned in just enough to whisper against his jaw, “We’re gonna have to repaint, you know.”

She nudged his shoulder with hers, like the weight of all that emotion had tipped into something she could carry now.

“Something weird. Something her. Not pink.”

She popped the rest of the marshmallow into her mouth, chewed, then mumbled through the sweetness, “You already know I’m vetoing beige.”

And just like that—it was happening.

The healing. The hope.

The start of something they hadn’t dared to name before.

She swung her legs off the counter, landed barefoot on the kitchen tile, and turned to face him fully—bare shoulders, sticky hands, and every bit of her heart wide open.

“I want her to walk into that room and know it was made just for her,” Rowan said. “And that she was wanted long before we ever met her.”

She stepped forward, gently took his hand again, and pressed her fingers between his.

“And that she’s got a dad who would build furniture, and fight off every matching napkin in Target if it meant making her feel safe.”

A beat.

Then, quietly: “And a mom who finally believes she can do this. Because you stayed.”

Her eyes shimmered.

But this time, it wasn’t fear.

It was joy. Big, wobbly, life-altering joy.

And when she smiled, Mason didn’t have to say a thing.

Because they were already living the answer.

Mason’s heart was wrecked.

Not in the dramatic, heartache way. In the holy shit, how did I get so lucky kind of way. The kind of wrecked that rearranged you. Made you quiet inside. Made you still.

Because Rowan Starling was standing barefoot in their smoke-scented kitchen, hands sticky with marshmallow and truth, looking at him like she wasn’t just choosing this life—they were building it together, piece by imperfect piece.

And she was still here.

Not clinging. Not bracing. Here.

She said her dad boxed it all up. The office. The comics. The mug. Said he made space for something better, and Mason felt the word better hit him straight in the ribs. Because she didn’t say it lightly. Didn’t toss it out like it meant nothing.

She said it like someone who’d spent her whole life doubting if she was enough—and was finally starting to believe she was.

He didn’t try to fill the silence when her voice cracked.

Didn’t try to fix it.

Just watched her take that marshmallow from his hand like it was something sacred, like letting herself be taken care of didn’t make her weaker—but realer.

And when she laughed?

That quiet, caught-off-guard kind of laugh that lit up her whole face?

Mason swore he’d remember that sound forever.

Then she whispered against his jaw—we’re gonna have to repaint, you know—and he just about lost it again.

God, he loved her.

Loved the way she pivoted from emotional collapse to weird paint decisions like it was the most natural thing in the world. Loved that she didn’t want pink. Loved that she’d already vetoed beige. Loved that she was standing in the aftermath of all her fears, ready to design a future anyway.

When she stepped off the counter and turned to face him fully, something in him clicked into place.

Not like a lock.

Like a landing.

He took in all of her—bare shoulders, messy hair, soft grin, sugar on her fingers—and felt it: that big, quiet joy she was finally letting herself feel.

And then she said it.

That she wanted their daughter to know the room was made for her. That she was wanted long before she arrived. That Rowan believed she could do this—because he stayed.

Mason blinked, hard.

His throat tightened.

Not because it hurt—but because it didn’t.

This was the moment he knew he’d never doubt again.

That she believed in the life they were building. In herself. In them.

He squeezed her hand gently, brushing his thumb between her fingers.

“Okay,” he said, voice quiet but full. “No beige. No pink. We’ll paint it something weird and wild and completely her.”

Then, slower:

“I’ll build the furniture. You pick the playlist. We’ll eat cereal off the floor if we have to. But I promise you—she’ll know.”

He stepped forward, kissed her forehead, then let it linger.

“She’ll know love like it’s air,” he murmured. “Because it’s all over this house.”

He smiled then, big and ruined and real.

“And yeah,” he added with a soft laugh, “I’m definitely fighting those napkin sets at Target. You know I don’t back down from a challenge.”

She laughed again. Brighter this time.

And Mason?

Mason just held her tighter.

Because this wasn’t a someday.

This was now.

And they were ready.

Rowan didn’t say anything right away.

She couldn’t.

Not with the way her chest was pulling tight and warm at the same time. Not with the way Mason was looking at her like she was already someone’s whole world and not just a girl standing barefoot in a kitchen that still smelled like defeat and burnt meatloaf.

She watched him—watched the way he softened around her without losing his shape. The way he didn’t fill the air with reassurances or noise. The way he let her speak, and stumble, and be.

She wasn’t used to that.

Wasn’t used to someone listening without waiting for their turn to talk. Wasn’t used to being met with warmth instead of strategy.

But here he was.

Offering to build furniture and battle Target napkin sets and turn a nursery into a galaxy for a baby who hadn’t even been born yet—but who already had a home.

And a dad who would fight like hell to make sure she always knew it.

Rowan blinked, hard, trying to swallow the lump in her throat before it turned into tears again. She took a breath. Then another. And when she looked at Mason—really looked—her whole heart turned over.

“I don’t want wild,” she said softly, voice almost shy.

He looked at her, eyebrows twitching like he was preparing for a color war.

“I want this,” she said, eyes holding his. “Exactly this.”

And then she moved, slow and sure, walking over to the table where her phone sat charging beside a half-eaten marshmallow and an old mug she’d forgotten about. She tapped the screen, pulled up the photo. Turned it around.

The nursery mockup. Her nursery.

Soft stars. Wooden crib. A navy wall with little gold animals. Warm lights tucked into corners like constellations.

“This is her room,” she said quietly, holding the screen between them. “This is the one. No lavender. No beige. Just this. Cozy. Strange. Quietly magic.”

Her fingers brushed his as he took the phone, staring at the photo like it was sacred.

“She’s gonna wake up under stars,” Rowan said. “And know she’s safe. And wanted. And that even the weird little fox on the wall has her back.”

She smiled then—wider, easier.

“And if she ever asks about it, I’ll tell her how her dad fought valiantly for moon-shaped pillows and nearly lost a finger to an overzealous glider assembly.”

She stepped back into his space, let her head rest against his chest again, and exhaled. Long. Steady.

“I love you,” she whispered.

Rowan would never get tired of saying it.

“Okay,” she said after a beat, lifting her head and catching his eye with something stronger than tears. “You’ll build the crib. I’ll order the stars. And if we both survive assembling that bookshelf without ending up in couples’ therapy, we’re officially ready for parenthood.”

She smiled. Really smiled.

Then kissed his cheek.

“And for the record?” she added. “I’m gonna win the Target napkin war. You just don’t know it yet.”

Because Rowan Starling wasn’t scared anymore.

This was the life.

Not perfect.

But hers.

And that made all the difference.

Mason didn’t move.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Barely breathed.

Because when Rowan said I don’t want wild. I want this—he felt something shift in the center of his chest.

Like his whole heart just sat down.

Like it had been pacing for years, waiting for the right moment, the right person, the right future to belong to—and now it was here.

Right here.

In her voice. In her eyes. In the way she walked barefoot across the kitchen to retrieve her phone, like it wasn’t just a phone anymore but a piece of something holy. A glimpse at the life they were building in real time.

When she turned the screen toward him, he took it like it might burn him if he wasn’t careful.

And maybe it did.

Because that nursery mockup?

It wasn’t just soft stars and cozy blues and golden foxes.

It was her. Her hope. Her heart. Her belief that this could be beautiful—not in the way it looked, but in the way it felt.

Quietly magic, she’d said.

And she was right.

Because that’s what she was.

That’s what this was.

And God, when she said she’d tell their daughter how her dad fought valiantly for moon pillows and nearly lost a finger to a glider?

Mason grinned through the ache in his throat and the sting behind his eyes.

“I barely survived that Allen wrench last time,” he whispered, thumb still hovering over the screen. “But for her? I’ll risk it again.”

She stepped into his space then, head resting against his chest, like all the pieces had finally landed where they were supposed to.

And when she said I love you?

That was it.

The whole world tilted back into place.

He wrapped his arms around her, slow and steady, resting his chin against the top of her head like it was the only place he ever wanted to be.

“I love you too,” he murmured, voice rough with everything he couldn’t fit into three words. “So much it makes no sense.”

When she lifted her head, all spark and steady now, talking about bookshelves and couples’ therapy and stars you could order off the internet, Mason laughed—really laughed—because this was exactly how he wanted to be loved.

This was it.

“I’ll build the crib,” he said, voice still a little wrecked. “You order the stars. And we’ll tag team that bookshelf like our relationship depends on it.”

She kissed his cheek, warm and easy, and threw her final line like a victory flag:

I’m gonna win the Target napkin war. You just don’t know it yet.

Mason just grinned, tugging her hand gently into his again.

“Let the record show,” he said, “that if I go down in a blaze of themed paper goods, I’ll die happy.”

And he meant it.

Because this?

This wasn’t chaos.

This was home.

Messy. Magic. Ours.

And Mason would build it with her a thousand times over.

Rowan didn’t smile right away.

Not the usual kind, anyway.

Not the sharp-edged grin she gave people when they complimented her without meaning it. Not the polite one she wore at family gatherings when someone said something passive about her “growing up so fast.” Not the fake one she used to survive rooms she never quite fit in.

This smile was slower. Warmer. Like it had to melt its way through a hundred old fears before reaching her mouth.

Because Mason didn’t laugh when she said she didn’t want wild.

He didn’t tease or roll his eyes or say “really?” like it surprised him.

He just listened.

Held the phone like it mattered. Like her vision—the quiet stars, the dark blue walls, the glow of something soft and real—wasn’t ridiculous or overly sentimental or something they’d scrap the second a parenting blog said it wasn’t practical.

He looked at it like it was sacred.

Like she was sacred.

And that?

That did her in.

She stepped into him without thinking, let her forehead rest where his shoulder met his neck, and exhaled into the space between them like it could hold the weight of everything she didn’t have words for yet.

His arms wrapped around her without hesitation, and God, she melted. Marshmallow-sticky hands and all.

Because he didn’t just stay.

He believed.

In the room. In the story. In her.

She felt his chin against her hair, the way his body held steady even as his voice cracked on those three words—and maybe for the first time in her life, she didn’t flinch from being told she was loved.

She believed him.

She looked up, cheeks flushed, heart wide open, and said softly, “We’re gonna be a really weird little family, aren’t we?”

And she meant it in the best way.

Because she wanted the kind of love that burned meatloaf and read bedtime stories with character voices and debated Target napkins like it was serious legislation.

She wanted the kind that built bookshelves slowly, with too many curse words and not enough screws. The kind that danced around half-unpacked boxes with a baby in one arm and a playlist they forgot to turn off.

She kissed his cheek again, softer this time.

“I love you,” she said again, not because he needed to hear it—but because she needed to feel herself say it. “I love this life. I love what we’re making. Even the burnt parts.”

Then, with a smirk, she added:

“And for the record? I’m gonna frame the Target napkin I beat you with. Put it right over the changing table. Our first war trophy.”

And for once?

She didn’t feel like she was bracing for it all to fall apart.

She just felt held.

And that was everything.