Noah stayed still just a moment longer.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe too loudly. Didn’t risk shaking the soft echo of that kiss off his skin or the quiet laughter out of his chest.

Because Luna?

God, she’d always done this—taken the chaos he brought home and turned it gentle. Taken the tangled threads of his day and smoothed them into something soft, something steady. Something that felt like sitting in the sun after weeks of cold.

Her lips against his had tasted like reassurance. Like a promise she hadn’t meant to make but gave freely anyway. The kind that sank straight into his bones. And when her hand lingered on his chest just long enough to feel how hard his heart was beating, he didn’t hide it.

He didn’t hide anything anymore.

And he loved her even more for not flinching at the honesty.

“You coming, or am I eating yours too?”

God, that crooked smirk. The way her shirt hung off one shoulder. How she navigated crayons and chaos with quiet grace, every step reminding him of exactly what he’d spent days missing—the warm, messy, unpolished rhythm of home.

He didn’t rush.

Just watched her move away, the shape of her framed by the gentle glow from the kitchen behind her. He exhaled, slow and steady, before pushing himself to his feet, muscles stiff from travel but loosening just at the sight of her waiting by the doorway.

“Better not touch my enchiladas, Lulu,” he said, voice soft with mock-warning, a playful edge slipping in. “I flew a thousand miles for those.”

He stepped carefully over glitter landmines and discarded tiaras, pausing briefly to scoop Harper up from the floor, her laughter erupting as he swung her effortlessly onto his shoulders.

“Daddy! NO! The kingdom needs me!”

He laughed—warm, deep, real. “Sorry, princess. You’ll have to rule from up here. It’s enchilada protocol.”

Harper gripped his hair like reins, giggling madly.

Luna leaned against the kitchen doorway, eyes sparkling, arms crossed loosely in front of her, one brow arched in amused challenge.

Noah’s gaze softened when it caught hers. Held.

And with that, she turned into the kitchen, the warm scent of cumin and melted cheese drifting out to wrap around him like another welcome home. Harper tugged at his curls, singing something off-key about royal feasts and glitter treaties.

But Noah’s eyes were still on Luna.

Always Luna.

She moved toward the stove, barefoot and easy, tossing him a glance over her shoulder as if checking he was still there. As if she didn’t already know he’d follow her anywhere.

He stepped into the kitchen after her—his family around him, warm food waiting, laughter echoing gently—and he finally let himself breathe.

Because this—this messy, glittered, chaotic life with Luna and Harper?

This was the dream he always came home to.

Luna didn’t look back right away.

She heard the soft groan of the floor under his weight, the shuffle of him rising, the unmistakable squeal of Harper declaring her royal rights—and still, she waited. Let the moment stretch just long enough for the warmth in her chest to catch up with her smirk.

She plated the enchiladas with practiced ease—barefoot, hair falling loose from what used to be a ponytail, Noah’s old band tee skimming her thighs like it belonged there. Like she did.

At the table, Harper’s plate was already waiting—a pink plastic one shaped like a crown, because obviously—and Luna automatically cut the enchiladas into tiny, uneven bites. The way Harper liked them. She filled her princess cup with milk and popped the lid on, sliding both into place at the seat covered in glitter stickers and crumbs from earlier royal summits.

“Her Highness has been served,” she called lightly, tossing Harper a wink.

Their daughter cackled and saluted with her spoon.

While the enchiladas finished warming in the oven, Luna moved to the fridge, cracking the door just wide enough to let the soft glow spill across her bare legs. She grabbed the beer without looking—his favorite, always stocked for nights like this—and twisted off the cap with the bottle opener magnet stuck crookedly to the freezer door.

When she turned, Noah was standing right where she expected him to be—just inside the kitchen, eyes on her like she was some kind of answer. Like all the noise had dulled except her.

Without a word, she handed off the beer, brushing his fingers with hers in the process.

“Peace offering,” she murmured. “For being late.”

Then, after a beat—softer now—she met his gaze fully. That steady, open kind of look that made the air feel heavier in the best way.

“I saved your plate,” she said quietly. “Even though I thought about stealing a bite.”

She didn’t have to say I missed you—it lived in every word, every glance, every effortless way she moved around him like he’d never left.

Her hand brushed his again as he reached past her for silverware. Just a touch. Just enough.

Then she leaned in again—brief, certain, pressing a kiss to the side of his jaw that felt like grounding.

“Good,” she whispered against his skin, “because enchiladas don’t taste the same when you’re gone.”

Then she pulled back, lifted Harper off his shoulders with a practiced swing of her arms, and dropped a kiss onto their daughter’s forehead.

“To the table, majesty,” she grinned, “before your dad eats the whole tray.”

Harper sprinted with dramatic flair toward the dining nook, and Luna just looked back at Noah—soft, knowing, hers.

“Come on, babe,” she added, nodding toward the plates, “dinner’s hot, your shirt’s on me, and your family’s home.”

Then she turned, moving toward the table with the kind of quiet grace only chaos-tired mothers possess—half smile, full heart, glitter still clinging to her wrist.

And she didn’t have to check if he followed.

She already knew he would.

The next morning

The house was still.

No tiaras. No glitter politics. No tiny feet darting through hallways with urgent snack decrees.

Just quiet.

Luna moved through it like muscle memory—slow, barefoot, wrapped in one of Noah’s worn hoodies, sleeves pulled past her fingertips. The hem brushed the tops of her thighs as she passed through the hallway and into the kitchen, braid half unraveling down her back.

It was barely eight.

They hadn’t gotten to sleep until two.

Harper had ruled the living room until she passed out face-first in a pile of crayons and tulle. She’d be out until at least noon. And Luna? She wasn’t sure what exactly had woken her—habit, maybe. Or just that part of her that didn’t know how to sleep in anymore.

She started the coffee without really thinking. One-handed. Half-asleep. The scent of cinnamon still lingered from last night, softened by the faint hum of early sun warming the tile.

Two mugs, not one.

She set them on the table.

Then reached into the fridge and grabbed the small pink cup of milk she’d prepped for Harper—because even when the kingdom slept, the queen always planned ahead.

When she closed the door, he was there.

Noah.

Silent. Barefoot. Just watching her with that unreadable softness that always made something settle low and warm in her chest.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

She met his eyes. Held them.

Then crossed the kitchen and slid his mug forward, fingers brushing the rim of the ceramic before retreating. Her own cup she kept close, one knee tucked up as she curled into her chair across from him, posture easy and quiet in the morning hush.

No fanfare. No declarations.

Just them.

Just this.

She took a slow sip and let herself exhale, shoulders loosening in a way they hadn’t in days. Her gaze drifted out the window for a beat before returning to him—still there. Still home.

And without saying a word, Luna smiled. Not wide. Not performative.

Just soft.

Like maybe the hardest part was over.

And maybe—just maybe—this morning didn’t need saving.

Noah didn’t speak at first.

Didn’t want to risk shattering the hush that wrapped around them like a second skin. That early morning kind of quiet, thick with steam and softness, where even thoughts seemed to tread lighter.

Luna in his hoodie. Barefoot. Half-asleep. The kind of beautiful that didn’t need trying.

God, how many mornings had he imagined this? Not just when he was gone—but even back when they’d first split. When he used to wake up in too-clean hotel rooms with too-white sheets and wonder if she’d ever let him come home again.

She had.

Not all at once. Not easily. But enough. Enough to remind him who he was. Who they were. Who they could be again if they stopped looking backward long enough to breathe.

And this—this exact moment—was the reason he never hesitated to forgive her. For the silence. For the heartbreak. For every time she’d flinched from him like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to still love him.

Because love wasn’t a clean line for them. It never had been.

It was messy and loud and made of late nights and glitter glue and arguments that ended in slammed doors and reconciliations that started with pink milk in sippy cups.

It was Harper asleep on his chest, and Luna half-laughing, half-crying on the stairs.

It was enchiladas at 10 p.m. and early morning coffee without words.

It was this.

The quiet things.

The true things.

And when her eyes slid toward the window, morning light catching the curve of her cheek, he let himself look at her.

Really look.

At the woman who had broken him, healed him, loved him, left him, and still—still—made space for him at the table like he belonged.

And fuck, he did. Every bit of him belonged here.

He set the bottle down.

Reached across the table.

Didn’t say a word—just slid his hand across the wood until her fingers found his, and when she looked at him again, he didn’t smile.

Not at first.

Just held her gaze.

And then—

A nod. A breath. A small tug of his mouth, crooked and reverent.

Like he was telling her I know.

Like he was saying Thank you.

Like he was reminding her This is forever. Even when it’s hard.

The coffee between them steamed quietly. Harper snored from the other room. Somewhere in the house, a glitter sticker probably clung to the side of a laundry basket like a flag planted by a three-foot queen.

And Noah?

Noah didn’t need more.

He had everything he’d ever asked for.

He gave her fingers one last squeeze, then rose—slow and barefoot, same as her—and moved behind her chair. Dipped down. Pressed his lips to her temple.

Just a kiss.

No ask.

No agenda.

Just love.

Then he whispered, voice low and rough and still thick with morning:

“You make it easy to come home, Lulu.”

And when she turned slightly—when her eyes flicked up at him, warm and still quiet—he smiled.

Full this time.

Real.

Unshakable.

Because they were okay.

Because they were them.

And as the morning sun filtered in stronger, and the coffee cooled, and Harper began to stir in the next room, Noah sat back down—elbow on the table, chin in his hand, eyes on his wife like she was still the best part of his day.

Because she was.

Always had been.

Always would be.

Luna didn’t speak right away.

She didn’t have to.

Not when his hand found hers like that—not tentative, not loud, just sure. Solid. Like he’d done the math on all of it and still landed here, still chose her. Still stayed.

She breathed in slow. Let it settle in her chest. Let it root somewhere deeper than forgiveness, somewhere realer than relief. Because what they had now? It wasn’t a fairytale. It was a rebuild. A reclamation. A quiet promise made with elbows brushing across chipped kitchen tables and glances that said more than whole conversations.

When his fingers slid into hers, she let them.

When he rose to his feet and came around behind her, she didn’t tilt away—she leaned, just slightly, into the familiar weight of him. Let her eyes fall closed as his lips pressed warm against her temple, the words melting into her skin before they even reached her ears.

“You make it easy to come home, Lulu.”

God.

If he only knew how much she’d needed that. Not the praise—not the poetry. Just him, saying it like a fact. Like the weather. Like it was always going to be true.

So she turned her head. Looked up at him with that soft, morning-laced smile—the kind she didn’t give to anyone else. And then, still quiet, still real, she said:

“Then don’t ever leave.”

But she knew he would.

Not because he wanted to. Not because he didn’t love her or Harper or this glitter-stained, enchilada-scented kitchen.

Because he had to.

Because his life—the one with tour buses and green rooms and crowds chanting his name—would always ask him to go. To be somewhere else. To carry pieces of himself across oceans and stages and cameras while she held down the fort at home.

She knew that. She’d made peace with it years ago.

But it didn’t mean it stopped hurting.

Every time he zipped a suitcase. Every time he kissed their daughter’s forehead goodbye. Every time she fell asleep curled around his pillow instead of his body.

It hurt.

Still.

Quietly. Constantly. Deep down, in the places that stayed soft no matter how strong she tried to be.

But she didn’t say that. Didn’t weigh him down with guilt he already wore like a second skin.

She just reached for his wrist again, brushing her thumb along his pulse, and added with a small, crooked smile:

“At least not today.”

Not while the coffee was still warm. Not while Harper’s blanket fort still stood. Not while his hoodie still hung soft on her frame like a second heartbeat.

Not while they were here—together—in the glow of one more morning he came back to her.

And she’d take it.

Even knowing he’d leave again.

Because he always came back.

And so did she.

She didn’t say anything else.

Just stood—slowly, carefully—fingers trailing along his arm as she rose from her chair. Her coffee stayed behind. The quiet didn’t.

She didn’t even glance at the clock. Couldn’t bear to know how fast the morning was slipping through her hands.

Instead, she took his hand in both of hers—warm, familiar, calloused in all the ways that told her he’d been working, playing, holding. Her thumb brushed his knuckles as she backed toward the living room, tugging gently until he followed. And he did.

Of course he did.

She guided him down onto the sofa, the old one with the slight dip in the middle from all the nights he’d fallen asleep there with Harper on his chest. It welcomed them like it knew their shape.

Luna curled in beside him without hesitation—knee over his thigh, arm tucked between them, her cheek against the same place she’d kissed last night beneath the fort. The world could wait. So could breakfast. So could the glitter-stained carpet and the pile of tiny pink socks on the stairs.

Right now?

She just wanted this.

“Let me have you a little longer,” she murmured, voice low against the fabric of his hoodie, barely above a breath. “Before I have to share you again.”

Because she would.

She always did.

The second his name hit another lineup or the cameras started trailing him again or someone reminded the world who he was out there—she’d lose pieces of him to the noise. Not forever. Not in the way that mattered. But enough.

Enough that she’d feel the echo of him missing from the room. From their bed. From Sunday mornings like this.

So she held on tighter. Let her hand splay across his chest, feeling the rise and fall beneath it. Let herself memorize the way his heartbeat steadied under her palm. Let herself rest.

Noah didn’t have to say anything.

He just wrapped both arms around her, tugged her in like he’d been waiting all morning to do it, and kissed the top of her head like he could seal the moment in place.

Luna didn’t move.

Didn’t think.

Didn’t plan what came next.

She just stayed exactly where she was, tucked into the quiet curve of him, soaking in the stillness before the day began in full—before Harper stumbled out in her glitter crown asking for waffles, before the texts and emails and time zones reminded her that their little world wasn’t immune to the bigger one.

But for now?

This was enough.

No.

This was everything.

He didn’t breathe for a beat.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just held her.

Because God, how could he not?

When she said things like that. When she asked for this. When she wrapped her arms around him like he wasn’t just passing through—but home. Like she could pretend, just for a while, that the world wouldn’t come knocking with its deadlines and tours and bright lights that never meant half as much as mornings like this.

Noah tightened his hold around her.

Buried his face in her hair.

Let the scent of her shampoo and the softness of her frame and the feel of her hand splayed against his chest all do the thing words couldn’t. Ground him. Remind him. Make him stay still.

She didn’t ask for forever.

Didn’t beg him to change.

She just asked for now.

For a little longer.

And Christ, he’d give her everything if he could. Rewrite contracts. Reroute planes. Say no to the noise and yes to this—the hoodie-warm mornings, the couch with the dip, the daughter who ruled their house like a sugar-high monarch with a glitter addiction.

He wanted this. Always had.

Even when he was too far away to hold it.

So he leaned back, just enough to see her face. To take in the sleepy edges of her eyes, the way the morning light kissed her skin, the stubborn smudge of glitter still clinging to her cheek from Harper’s warpath.

And he smiled.

Quiet. Crooked. Full of everything he didn’t know how to say.

“Hey…” he said softly, brushing a piece of hair behind her ear. “We’re overdue for a date night.”

Luna blinked at him, a little surprised, a little amused.

But he was already committing—already shifting so she could stay tucked against him as he reached for his phone on the armrest. “No, really. I mean it. Just us. No tiaras. No crayons. No glitter in weird places.”

His fingers paused, thumb resting on the screen as he looked back down at her—serious now, a little vulnerable in that way he only got with her.

“You’ve been holding so much,” he said quietly. “I see it. I feel it. And I know I can’t always take the weight off…but I can give you a night.”

He smiled again—gentler this time.

“A real one. With wine. And your favorite dress. And me pretending not to cry when you order the garlic fries.”

That earned a soft laugh from her, the kind that curled against his collarbone like a promise.

“I want to make time,” he said. “Not just when I’m here. Always. Even if it’s just a couple hours and a plate of overpriced pasta.”

He leaned down and pressed his forehead to hers.

“No cameras. No goodbyes. Just you and me.”

And maybe it wasn’t grand.

Maybe it didn’t fix the ache of leaving or erase the toll of staying.

But it was something.

It was intention. It was love. It was the kind of vow you didn’t make with rings or fanfare—but with presence.

And for Noah?

That mattered most.

Luna didn’t move at first.

Didn’t lift her head. Didn’t shift against him. Just let her fingers curl tighter into his hoodie as her eyes slipped shut again, his words wrapping around her like warmth.

God, he always did this.

Found the ache beneath her silence. Named it without pressure. Held it without flinching.

And now he was talking about date nights—real ones. Garlic fries and wine and her favorite dress, the one she’d tucked into the back of the closet like it didn’t ache to look at it some days. Not because she didn’t love him, but because sometimes loving him meant letting herself miss things too much.

But right now?

She just felt seen.

Held.

“Okay,” she whispered against his chest, her voice husky with sleep and something else. Something soft. “But I’m ordering dessert first.”

She felt him laugh more than heard it, his chest rumbling beneath her cheek.

Then quieter, almost shy, she added, “I want that. Not the pasta—well, yeah, the pasta too—but mostly just… you. Without the countdown. Without the next goodbye already written into the corners of the day.”

She finally looked up, brushing the smudge of glitter from her own cheek with the back of her hand, then met his gaze.

“Sometimes I think if I hold you tight enough, time will slow down.”

She smiled. It was small, but it reached her eyes.

“It never does. But I keep trying anyway.”

And there was no drama in it. No accusation. Just truth. Worn and real and wrapped in all the pieces they’d broken and rebuilt again.

Then, like it was the easiest thing in the world—because sometimes it really was—she reached up, cupped the side of his face, and kissed him slow. Not like she was asking for anything. Just like she needed to remind herself that she could.

When she pulled back, her thumb traced the corner of his mouth.

“I’ll take a couple hours. I’ll take whatever we get. Just promise me you’ll keep coming back.”

She didn’t mean to say that last part out loud.

But she did.

And she didn’t take it back.

Because they were past pretending now. Past swallowing things that deserved to be said.

She didn’t need the big gestures.

She just needed him to keep choosing this.

Choosing them.

And right now? He was.

Noah didn’t answer at first.

Didn’t rush to reassure her. Didn’t offer easy words or practiced promises.

He just looked at her.

At the shimmer of stubborn glitter on her collarbone. At the hoodie she’d stolen and made hers. At the way her thumb lingered near his mouth like it belonged there—like maybe it always had.

And then—quietly, reverently—he brought his hand up to cover hers, turning his face just enough to kiss her palm.

Not once. Not quick.

But slow.

Like he was anchoring himself to her.

“You don’t have to ask,” he said, voice rough at the edges. “You never have to ask.”

Because she was the constant in the chaos.

The one thing he looked for when the lights went out, when the shows ended, when the cities all started to blur together. She was the name he whispered into the space between hotel pillows. The voice that steadied him when the noise got too loud. The arms he imagined when the ache of missing home curled too tight in his chest.

“You’re my moon, Lulu,” he said softly, like it was the only truth that mattered. “Doesn’t matter how far I go—every time, I find my way back to you.”

His thumb traced over the backs of her fingers, slow and steady.

“Every time.”

Because no tour, no contract, no spotlight had ever meant what this meant.

Not this woman—sleep-rumpled, hoodie-clad, shining in morning light like something holy.

Not this life—small and loud and glitter-stained and real.

Not this love—scraped raw and pieced together again, stronger in its imperfection.

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, let his forehead rest against hers.

“I’ll take the hours,” he murmured. “And the minutes. And the seconds. I’ll take everything you’ll give me, and I’ll keep coming back for more.”

He kissed her again—soft, sure, a little deeper this time.

And when he pulled away, his voice was still just as certain:

“I’ll always come back to you.”

Luna didn’t speak right away.

Couldn’t.

Because her throat had gone tight in that way it only did when he meant it. When the words weren’t for the crowd or the cameras or even to make her feel better—but because they were true. Bone-deep. Breath-steady. The kind of truth she didn’t know how to ask for but always recognized when it showed up in his voice like that.

She exhaled slowly, and her eyes slipped shut.

His hand was still over hers. Warm. Steady. Her anchor and her undoing.

And God, he meant it. She could feel it in every brush of his thumb, every soft syllable he gave her like a vow.

Her moon.

It cracked something open in her chest.

Because she knew better—knew this life would always ask for him. That the world would always want more. That his name belonged on marquees and his voice belonged in rooms far bigger than this one. And she’d never be the kind of woman to hold him back from that.

But still…

It hurt. Every damn time.

Every goodbye. Every morning he wasn’t in the kitchen. Every night she had to explain to Harper why Daddy couldn’t tuck her in.

And yet here he was—calling her his constant. His gravity. His home.

Luna opened her eyes and looked at him.

Looked through him.

“You always say the exact thing I need before I even know I need it,” she whispered, her voice catching in her throat like it might break apart if she pushed too hard. “It’s infuriating.”

But she was smiling.

Not wide. Not bright.

Soft.

Like the kind of smile that comes after you cry in the shower and finally breathe again.

She leaned in then, hands still caught in his, and pressed her lips to his cheek. Just beneath his eye. Just long enough to let it linger.

Then her mouth brushed his ear, quiet and close.

“I’m holding you to that.”

And she would.

Because even if she couldn’t keep him—all of him—here, wrapped in domestic chaos and coffee steam and early morning hush, she could keep this.

The choosing.

The coming back.

The love that was never loudest when shouted, but when whispered into skin at sunrise.

And as she leaned back just enough to meet his gaze again, her fingers still tangled in his, Luna gave him one more look—

Full of belief.

Full of trust.

Full of love that had survived too much to ever be shaken loose.

“Okay,” she whispered.

Then again, quieter.

“Okay.”

Luna didn’t pull away.

She just shifted—slow, unhurried—rolling gently in the loose circle of his arms until her chest pressed flush to his, her bare legs tangling with the warmth of his beneath the throw blanket that had somehow followed them to the couch. One hand slid up his chest, slow and reverent, curling against the curve of his jaw like she needed to hold him in place. Like maybe the moment might dissolve if she didn’t.

“I mean it,” she murmured, voice softer now, like it belonged only to him. “You don’t get to say things like that and expect me not to fall in all over again.”

She dragged her fingers lightly over his stubble, her eyes tracing his face like a familiar constellation—cheekbones, lashes, the tiny scar at his brow that only showed up when he was tired and still too pretty to be fair.

“You say the word, and I’ll give you my hours, too,” she breathed, the confession small and aching between them. “Even the hard ones. Even when I’m mad. Even when you’re gone.”

Her thumb skimmed the corner of his mouth.

And God, it hurt—how badly she meant it. How much she loved him in the quiet. In the real. In the after.

Luna’s forehead pressed against his once more. Closer now. Like she wanted to climb into the space between his ribs and stay.

“This morning, this you…” she whispered, breath warm against his lips, “I want to memorize it. Burn it into every part of me so I don’t feel hollow when you’re somewhere else.”

Her voice cracked at the edges, and she didn’t hide it.

Didn’t hide any of it.

Because he already knew—what it cost her. What it took to love a man who belonged to the world and still asked him to choose her in a hundred small ways every time he came home.

And he did.

She rolled her hips just slightly, tucking herself in closer like she was trying to etch the shape of him into memory. Her fingers threaded into the back of his hair.

“You’re mine, Noah,” she said, barely audible now. “Even when you’re not here. Even when I want to scream about the glitter and the dishes and the space your leaving makes.”

A pause.

Then, eyes searching his:

“I just need the part that stays.”

And she didn’t mean his suitcase or his toothbrush or the socks he always left half-folded in the laundry room. She meant this. The way he looked at her like she was home. The way he kissed her palm like it was sacred. The way he let her be soft again, even when the world asked her to be steel.

She breathed in deep—his scent, his warmth, his everything—and let herself stay pressed into him.

Still. Whole. Held.

For however long the morning would allow.

Noah's eyes didn’t leave hers.

Not when her voice broke. Not when her fingers found the curve of his jaw. Not even when the ache in his chest swelled so full it felt like it might split him open from the inside out.

Because this—this soft, shattered, fearless truth she’d just laid at his feet—was everything.

She wasn’t asking for promises he couldn’t keep. Wasn’t trying to cage him. Wasn’t begging him to stay in ways that would make him feel like he was letting her down every time he left.

She just wanted the part that stayed.

The part that had always stayed.

The part of him that had never not been hers.

So he kissed her.

Not rushed. Not hungry. Not even with the quiet, aching heat pulsing between them like a second heartbeat.

He kissed her like a man who’d just been trusted with something sacred.

Like someone who knew that love this deep didn’t ask to be conquered—it asked to be kept.

His hand came up to her face, gentle and steady, fingers curling along her jaw like he was framing a memory. And when he finally spoke, his voice was low and raw and velvet-warm at the edges.

“I’ve left pieces of myself in every city,” he said. “Stages, songs, hotel rooms… all of it. But this—you, this house, the glitter and the goddamn pink socks and the way Harper’s laugh sounds when she’s got mac and cheese in her mouth—this is where I come back to put myself back together.”

He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes half-lidded, breath tangled with hers like even air wanted to stay between them.

“You don’t get the part that stays, Lulu,” he whispered.

“You are the part that stays.”

His thumb stroked over her cheek like a vow.

“I’ve loved you in the spotlight. I’ve loved you in the silences. I’ve loved you on stages and in stairwells and across time zones and fights and empty phone calls and nights when we forgot how to say the right thing.”

He kissed the corner of her mouth.

“I’ll love you in the glitter.”

Another kiss, slower this time, lingering at the center of her lips.

“And I’ll love you when it’s gone.”

His hands found her hips then, grounding her to him, steadying the way she trembled—not with fear, but with the weight of being seen.

“I will leave again,” he admitted, and it hurt to say, but he owed her truth. “And I will hate it every time.”

His voice cracked.

“But I will always come back. Every single time. Because I only feel like a whole person when I’m here. With you. With Harper. With this messy, imperfect, beautiful life we built from the bones up.”

He paused.

Then quieter, reverent:

“You’re not just my moon. You’re my gravity. The reason the rest of me still makes sense.”

He didn’t need an answer right away.

Didn’t need anything but this.

The weight of her in his arms. The truth stretched between them. The morning sun bleeding soft across her cheek as she breathed in the kind of safety only he could give her.

And maybe, just maybe—

She’d finally believe what he’d always known.

She was his heart. His home.

And he’d never stop choosing her.