Riley’s breath stilled in her chest the moment he said it —
You drove all the way to my place that Christmas… and left because you saw someone on the porch?

She hadn’t spoken that memory out loud in years.

Her fingers tightened lightly in the back of his shirt, her forehead pressing to his as she exhaled slowly.

“…yeah,” she whispered. “I did.”

She didn’t look away, not this time.

“I’d come home for break. I was… lonely. Lost. Missing you more than I wanted to admit. And on the last night, I drove over because I wanted—”

Her voice caught.

“I just wanted to see you. Even for a minute.”

The music hummed around them, low and warm.
Riley swallowed, her thumb brushing lightly along his jaw.

“But when I pulled up and saw you standing on the porch with someone else… it felt like the door had already closed. Like whatever I’d been holding onto was just—wishful thinking.”

Her hand trembled once against his chest.

“I didn’t ask. I didn’t even give you a chance to explain. I just… left.”

A tear slipped before she could stop it, and she let it fall this time.

“I told myself it didn’t matter. That you deserved someone who wasn’t grieving a father, or drowning in college, or terrified of wanting the wrong things too deeply.”

Her fingers slid into the back of his hair, grounding herself on him.

“But it did matter,” she whispered. “It mattered so much I couldn’t even breathe.”

He tipped her chin up gently; she met his eyes with raw honesty.

“When I saw you with her… I thought I’d waited too long. I thought you’d moved on. And I didn’t know how to stay in a place that felt like it had room for everyone except… me.”

Riley stepped closer, her body fitting to his with quiet intention.

“It wasn’t about her,” she murmured. “It was about me. About how small and broken I felt after Dad died. About how much pressure I put on myself to be okay when I wasn’t.”

She brushed her thumb softly across his cheek, the gesture tender and slow.

“And it was about you,” she whispered. “Because you were the one person I couldn’t bear to lose. Not again. Not after everything.”

Her forehead touched his again, the contact warm and steady.

“I didn’t run because you did something wrong, Joe.”
Her voice softened to a breath.
“I ran because I was scared I wasn’t someone you’d wait for.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the truth settle between them.

“But I should’ve stayed. I should’ve asked. I should’ve trusted what we were instead of assuming I wasn’t allowed to hope for it.”

Her hand slid to the back of his neck, gentle and sure.

“And for the record…”
She opened her eyes again, steady and warm.
“I’m not afraid of what I see anymore. Not on porches. Not in this town. Not in you.”

Riley pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek — not playful, not light, but full.

A kiss that meant: I’m here now. Completely.

Then she held him closer, letting the sway carry them.

“I’m sorry I left,” she whispered into his chest.

Joe didn’t let her apology sit in the air like a bruise.
He didn’t stiffen.
Didn’t tense.
Didn’t let the moment get heavy enough to drown her.

He just let out the faintest, breathiest sound — half exhale, half laugh — like he’d been expecting her to try carrying the blame on her own and was already stepping in to take it off her shoulders.

He slid his hand up her back, slow and steady, palm warm through her shirt as he held her right against him.

“Darlin’…” he murmured, voice low and easy in her ear, “you know you didn’t have to be perfect to stand next to me, right?”

His thumb brushed her cheekbone, gentle enough to feel like a promise.

“I mean, have you met me?” he added, eyes warming with that familiar spark. “I spent mostta high school lookin’ like a before picture. My standards were nothin’ to brag about.”

Riley let out a small, startled laugh — thin, shaky, beautiful — the kind that sounded like a knot finally loosening.

Joe smiled, brushing the tip of his nose along her cheek.

“You weren’t broken,” he whispered. “You were just hurtin’. And hurtin’ doesn’t make you unlovable. Doesn’t make you wrong. Doesn’t make you someone I’d ever turn away.”

He tilted her chin up gently, making her look at him — not at the past, not at her fear, not at the porch she drove away from.
At him.

His thumb stroked the soft skin beneath her eye, slow and warm.

“And if you’d knocked on that door back then?” he continued, tone shifting into that easy, teasing sweetness only he could manage, “Riles, I’da opened it so fast I’d probably have tripped over my own damn boots.”

Her laugh cracked again — wet but genuine — and she tucked her face into his chest like she couldn’t help it.

Joe wrapped both arms around her this time, pulling her closer, rocking her gently to the rhythm of the music.
His chin brushed the top of her head.

“I’m serious,” he murmured into her hair. “You show up on my porch in December, lookin’ at me the way you’re lookin’ at me right now? I’d’ve held onto you so tight the neighbors’d still be gossipin’ about it.”

She snorted — actually snorted — and he grinned.

“There she is,” he whispered, brushing a soft kiss to her temple. “There’s the girl I’ve always been in trouble over.”

Her fingers curled in his shirt, breathing steadier now.

Joe pulled back just enough to see her face — red-eyed, soft, real — and he cupped her jaw with a hand that fit there like it had been shaped for it.

“You don’t owe me an apology for leavin’,” he said quietly. “You were tryin’ to survive somethin’ nobody should ever have to face. And you did it the only way you knew how.”

He swayed them both deeper into the song, chest warm against hers, breath brushing her cheek with every step.

“And you lettin’ me back into your life after you came home…” he whispered, “that’s what matters to me. Not the years in between. Not the fear. Not the porch.”

His smile curved slow and certain.

“Just this.”

He slid one hand into her hair, soft at the nape of her neck, thumb stroking where she was warmest.

“You’re here with me now,” he murmured, forehead dropping gently to hers. “That’s enough.”

Riley breathed him in slowly, letting the warmth of his chest settle her, letting the safety of his arms loosen everything she’d kept tight for years.

When he said she didn’t have to be perfect to stand next to him, she exhaled a tiny, shaking breath against his throat.

“I know that now,” she whispered, fingers sliding up into the soft hair at the back of his neck. “Back then… I didn’t. I thought if I wasn’t holding myself together, I didn’t deserve you. I didn’t deserve anything.”

His thumb brushed her cheekbone, and she turned into the touch like her body recognized it before her mind did.

“You didn’t see broken when you looked at me,” she murmured. “But I did. All I saw was the mess. The fear. The empty parts. And I didn’t want you to have to carry any of that.”

He called her hurt, not unlovable, and her throat tightened.

“That’s exactly why I ran,” she whispered. “Because you were the first person who ever made me feel like I wasn’t too much… or not enough. And I didn’t know how to accept that without falling apart.”

When he lifted her chin, making her meet his eyes, she held his gaze without flinching.

“If I had knocked?” she said softly. “I wouldn’t have left. I know that. I knew it even then.”

Her voice softened into something raw and honest.

“That’s what terrified me, Joe. That you would’ve opened that door, and I… I wouldn’t have had the strength to walk away again.”

His arms tightened around her, swaying her gently, and she leaned into his chest, fitting there like it was the place every version of her had been built for.

“You holding onto me that night?” she whispered against his collarbone. “I would’ve stayed. For you. Even when everything else in my life felt impossible.”

She took a slow breath, grounding herself in his warmth.

“I wasn’t surviving,” she admitted. “I was just… trying not to drown. And leaving felt like the only way to breathe.”

She looked up at him again, her fingertips brushing the line of his jaw.

“But you’re right. You’re absolutely right. What matters isn’t the leaving, or the fear, or the porch I couldn’t bring myself to walk up to.”

Her palm settled over his heart, feeling the steady beat under her fingertips.

“What matters is that I came back,” she whispered. “And you were still here. And I finally let myself stay.”

He dropped his forehead to hers, and she closed her eyes, her voice softening to a vow.

“And Joe… being here with you now? It’s not just enough.”

Her thumb brushed his cheek, gentle and certain.

“It’s everything.”

Then she slid her free hand up to the back of his neck, pulled him just an inch closer, and let her lips graze his in a soft, warm whisper of a kiss — the kind that sealed promises, not apologies.

Joe didn’t flinch when she said it.

Didn’t panic.
Didn’t freeze.
Didn’t treat it’s everything like some bomb she’d just dropped between them.

Because to him?

Of course it was.

It had been everything for so long that his heart just… nodded along and went, yeah, that tracks.

When her lips brushed his, soft and warm and sure, he met her halfway without thinking. No scramble. No shock. Just a man stepping into a space he’d been quietly saving for years.

He kissed her back like he had time.
Like they had time.

Slow, steady, the kind of kiss that didn’t ask for anything more than what she’d already given him—her weight in his hands, her heart on his chest, her truth laid bare between them.

He let it linger for a few breaths that felt suspiciously like a prayer answered, then eased back just enough to see her face. Not far—just enough that he could look at her without losing the ability to form words.

Her eyes were still soft. Still wet. Still wide open.

He let a small, crooked smile pull at his mouth, the kind that had always belonged more to her than anyone else.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice low and warm, his breath still mingling with hers, “feels like everything from where I’m standin’, too.”

His thumb swept along her cheek, catching the last trace of a tear and the faint heat left by the kiss. He didn’t let the moment sink back into something heavy. Not when she’d just handed it to him wrapped in hope instead of guilt.

Up close like this, he could see every little detail he’d missed when she was gone—the way her lashes clumped a little when she got emotional, the tiny freckle near her temple, the way her mouth fought a smile even when she was trying to be serious.

He slid the hand at her waist a little lower, a little firmer, tugging her in until there was no space for doubt between them. His fingers spread at the small of her back, holding her like he fully intended to be the place she landed now—no questions asked.

The jukebox kept humming something low and familiar, but Joe barely heard it. The real rhythm was the sway of her hips aligned with his, the tap of her heartbeat against his ribs, the soft drag of her breath over his skin.

“I used to lie awake thinkin’ about this,” he admitted, his tone easy but honest, like he was telling her something as simple as the weather. “You back in this town. Back in my arms. Me tryin’ not to step on your toes in the middle of my own bar.”

He huffed out a quiet little laugh, more at himself than anything, and dipped his head to press a kiss to her forehead—slow, deliberate, reverent in a way he didn’t bother hiding.

The faint scent of her shampoo hit him—something soft and clean that made his chest tighten with a kind of relief he didn’t have words for.

“Turns out,” he murmured against her skin, his smile curving against the place his lips rested, “I don’t mind gettin’ a little clumsy if this is what I get out of it.”

He leaned back just enough to find her eyes again, their bodies still moving in that lazy, unhurried circle.

“And just so we’re clear,” he added, amusement glinting under all that tenderness, “I’ve been yours for a long time, Carson. You’re just finally lettin’ yourself believe it.”

He punctuated it with another soft sway, guiding her through the slow turn like they’d been doing this every night instead of finally picking the dance back up.

His fingers flexed gently at her waist, holding her close.
His gaze stayed steady on hers.

No fear.
No shock.
Just a man quietly, confidently in love, lightening the weight of her confession with a smile that said:

I’ve been here the whole time.

Riley didn’t move far when Joe eased back from the kiss—just enough space to see him clearly, to feel the warmth of his breath mingling with hers. Her hands were still curled into the fabric of his shirt, the cotton soft beneath her fingertips, the heat of his chest steady and real beneath it.

Everything in her felt… quiet in a way she hadn’t known in years.
Like her pulse had finally stopped sprinting.
Like her body recognized a place it had been trying to get back to.

When he told her it felt like everything from where he was standing, her eyes softened, the last of that trembling uncertainty melting at the edges.

“Good,” she whispered, brushing her nose lightly against his. “Because I don’t want this to live in halves anymore. Not after everything we’ve already survived.”

Her voice didn’t shake this time.
It just fell out of her, warm and certain.

His hand still rested at her waist, fingers curled gently at the fabric of her shirt. She could feel the way he held her—careful, grounding, like he was trying to memorize the shape of her against him. She slid her palm higher along his chest, feeling the slow, solid rise of his breath.

When he said he’d imagined her coming back, imagined this bar, this dance, her smile grew—small, real, tugged up from some quiet place deep inside her.

“I pictured it too,” she admitted, letting her thumb sweep along the line of his jaw. “Even when I pretended I wasn’t allowed to.”

His forehead rested against hers, the gesture so gentle it nearly undid her. The low hum of the jukebox wrapped around them, warm and smoky, and their bodies moved in that slow, unhurried rhythm that felt older than either of them.

And when he confessed he’d been hers for a long time?

That did it.

Riley’s breath left her in a soft exhale, her hand moving instinctively—sliding up to cradle his cheek, her thumb brushing the faint stubble along his jaw. She held him like she’d been waiting years for him to say those words out loud.

“I know,” she whispered. “That’s what makes this feel like… coming back to myself.”

Her fingers threaded into the short hairs at the nape of his neck, and she lifted onto her toes, kissing him again.
Slow.
Deliberate.
A kiss that didn’t reach for anything beyond the moment—just deepened it.

His lips were warm, familiar, steady. The kind of kiss that anchored instead of taking. That promised instead of asked.

When she finally pulled back, Riley rested her hand over his heartbeat, right beneath the collar of his shirt. His pulse thudded steady against her palm, matching the lazy sway of their bodies.

Her smile turned softer… then a little wicked, blooming like heat under her ribs.

“And just so you’re fully prepared,” she murmured, tracing idle circles on his chest, her fingers brushing the warm skin above his collarbone,

“when we get married?”

She leaned in, her lips brushing the curve of his ear, her breath warm enough to make goosebumps rise down his neck.

“I can’t wait to try for a baby with you.”

The words came out honey-sweet, teasing but full of something deeper—want, hope, a future she wasn’t afraid to imagine anymore.

She pulled back just enough to see his eyes, her own glowing with mischief and something tenderer.

“Hope you’re ready for that part, Barnes.”

Her hand slid down, fingers lacing with his again, fitting perfectly like they always had.

Because she meant every word.
And she wanted him to feel it in every inch of the space between them.

Joe let out the softest, lowest whistle against her ear — the kind a man makes when the world shifts in the exact direction he’s been praying for. Not loud. Not cocky. Just… real. Like the air had gone sweeter.

Riley leaned back enough to look at him, and sure enough, she was already smirking like she knew what she’d done. That warm, wicked little glint in her eye, that half-smile tugging at the corner of her mouth — like she’d just dropped a match on something dry and wild in his chest and didn’t plan on putting it out.

He didn’t blink.
Didn’t step back.
Didn’t even try to play it cool.

He just smiled — slow, easy, a little dangerous — and gave her hand the gentlest tug as he spun her into a lazy turn, letting the jukebox hum wrap around them like they had all the time in the world.

When she landed back against him, their bodies falling into that natural sway again, he dipped his head to murmur against her hair:

“Well,” he drawled, voice low and full of something warm and full-grown, “good thing I’ve already been picturin’ you barefoot in our kitchen yellin’ at me to stop lettin’ our toddler eat Goldfish off the floor.”

Riley’s laugh cracked out of her, bright and genuine — and Lord, he felt that sound in his ribs.

He grinned into her hair, arms curling around her waist as he held her a little tighter. Her heartbeat was a slow thrum against his chest. Steady. Certain. Like she was already building a future against him without saying another word.

“You’re not scarin’ me off, Riley,” he said softly, serious now — not heavy, just real. “Not with marriage, not with babies, not with that look in your eyes.”

He pulled back just enough to see her face. To make sure she saw him too — saw that he wasn’t teasing, wasn’t overwhelmed, wasn’t guessing.

“You’re givin’ me the green light I’ve been waitin’ on since I was seventeen and already too sure about you.”

His fingers brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, tender.

“And yeah, I know I didn’t say it back then. I didn’t know how to. But I used to think about it all the time—what it’d be like if you ever came back and looked at me like that again.”

He paused, just long enough for it to settle.

“Turns out,” he added, voice dipping with that old-school drawl that only got thicker when he meant something, “you still knock me sideways with a single damn sentence.”

Her fingers curled in the back of his shirt like they always did when she was trying not to cry or kiss him again or both.

He kissed her temple, slow and sure, letting his lips rest there for a beat.

“And just so you’re fully prepared,” he whispered, smile curving as he eased them into another gentle sway, “I am gonna be real annoying about buildin’ you that porch swing.”

She huffed a little laugh against his throat.

“You know the one,” he went on, eyes dancing now. “Ugly floral cushions. Big enough for two and a half, ‘cause I figure we’ll need space for a baby monitor and your third glass of wine.”

She gave a soft gasp of laughter, and he smiled, pressing his mouth to her cheek.

“And I’m gonna be the fool cryin’ in the delivery room while you’re yellin’ at me to stop narratin’ it like a baseball game.”

He leaned back just enough to meet her eyes again — his hand still warm at the small of her back, his other laced through hers.

“But I’m tellin’ you right now, Carson…”

His voice softened, grounded, the kind that made promises without needing vows.

“If you’re ready to build it, I’m ready to live it.”

He kissed her one more time — long, unhurried, deep enough to make it real. Then he rested his forehead to hers again and held her close, like the dance was just beginning.
Because to him?

It was.

Riley felt that soft whistle like a warm shock blooming under her skin — a sound so quiet she barely heard it, but her whole body reacted anyway. She knew that sound. Knew what it meant when it came from him.

She lifted her head, and the look on his face nearly took her breath.
That slow, molten smile he only ever wore when she’d hit a place in him he didn’t guard.

And God, she’d hit it on purpose.

He spun her with effortless ease, his hand sure at the small of her back, and she let herself soften into the movement, let the air shift around them, let the room fall away until it was just his hands and her heartbeat and the low hum of the jukebox like background smoke.

Then he said it — kids in the kitchen, Goldfish crumbs, a toddler on the floor — and something deep in her chest went tight. Not painful.
Just… real.
Possible.
Close enough to touch.

She slid her hands higher on his chest, palms warming against the soft fabric of his shirt, and tucked her face into his neck for a beat, breathing him in like she was trying to remember how it felt to inhale something that didn’t hurt.

Cedar. Laundry. Him.

When he said she didn’t scare him? That she never could?

Her fingers curled at the nape of his neck, and she pulled back enough to look him dead-on.

“Joe,” she whispered, thumb grazing the line of his jaw, “if you were gonna get scared, it would’ve happened a long time ago.”

His eyes softened — the kind of softness men didn’t learn, they grew into — and when he tucked her hair behind her ear like it was instinct, her throat tightened.

He said he’d been waiting since seventeen, and she felt her breath catch in the back of her throat.

“I know,” she murmured, voice steady even though her chest wasn’t. “I felt it too. Every time I came home. Every time I tried to pretend I didn’t.”

He made a joke about being clumsy with a porch swing — about ugly cushions and baby monitors and her wine habit — and she couldn’t help the little huff of a laugh that escaped her.

“You’d absolutely cry in the delivery room,” she teased softly, sliding her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. “You wouldn’t even make it past check-in.”

She felt him smile against her skin, and the warmth of it traveled straight down her spine.

“And the porch swing?” she added, leaning in until her lips brushed the corner of his mouth. “I’ve wanted that since before I even knew that’s what I was wanting.”

She looked at him then — really looked — taking in the tiny lines near his eyes, the familiar curve of his mouth, the steadiness in him that she’d forgotten how to stand close to without bracing for impact.

Her voice went softer, deeper, true in a way she didn’t bother hiding.

“I’m ready for it,” she said. “For you. For all of it. I’m not running anymore.”

She let her gaze drop to his mouth, just for a breath, then lifted it again.

“And I’m not waiting.”

Then she kissed him.

Not shy.
Not hesitant.
Not testing the water.

She kissed him like someone who had decided — finally, fully — to stay.
Her fingers slipped into his hair, her other hand fisting in the front of his shirt as she pulled him closer, closer still, until the dance barely held shape around them.

When she eased back, lips brushing his with each word, she let a slow smile bloom across her face.

“So you’d better start practicing that porch swing speech,” she whispered, warm and teasing and utterly certain, “because I fully intend to give you a baby who leaves Goldfish everywhere — and I want you to be ready.”

She didn’t pull away.
She didn’t break the contact.

Instead, she slid her hands around his neck, pressed her forehead to his, and guided them right back into the sway — bodies close, breaths shared, a future settling quietly into the space between them.

Because for the first time in years, Riley wasn’t imagining what life with Joe might look like.

She was choosing it.
Actively.
Completely.

And she held him like she already belonged.

Joe didn’t say anything at first.

He couldn’t.

Because the moment she said I’m not waiting, then kissed him like she meant it—like it was already decided, already done—something inside him just… settled.

Like a lock turning.

Like breath coming easy for the first time in years.

He let her kiss him, held still for it, let her take the lead and the heat and the hush between them. He didn’t rush, didn’t tighten his grip, didn’t push it toward anything more. He just kissed her back slow and sure, one hand steady at her waist and the other slipping up to cup the side of her face, thumb stroking a line that felt like muscle memory.

And when she leaned back, grinning like she was about to ruin him all over again?

Yeah.
She did.

Goldfish and all.

He huffed a low breath through his nose, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh—just something real and full and his.

And then?

He looked at her.

Really looked. Not just at the way she fit against him, not just at the sparkle of a dare in her eyes or the warmth that lived under her skin now that she wasn’t running anymore—but at her. This woman. This home.

He dipped his head slightly, forehead still pressed to hers, and murmured low, like a promise dressed in denim:

“I don’t need to practice, darlin’.”

His thumb brushed her cheek.

“I’ve been carryin’ that speech in my back pocket for years.”

His voice stayed soft, but the weight behind it was anything but.

“Goldfish on the floor. Midnight feedings. A porch swing that creaks if you lean left.” His eyes crinkled. “I’ve imagined all of it with you.”

He didn’t say I’ve already planned how I’m gonna ask.
Didn’t say the ring’s not here yet, but I know exactly what it’s gonna look like.
Didn’t say blankets in the back of my truck, stars overhead, just you and me and a forever I’ve been waitin’ to name out loud.

He just held her closer. Slipped his fingers into her hair. Let his breath mingle with hers as they kept moving in that slow circle of light and jukebox hush.

“You’re not waitin’ anymore,” he whispered. “And I’m not wonderin’.”

Then he pressed a kiss to her temple—reverent, unhurried—and let it linger.

“Feels like we’re already buildin’ the life,” he added after a beat, his smile tugging warm at the edges. “All that’s left is to live it.”

And with that, he took her hand in his again, slid his arm back around her waist, and guided them gently into the next verse of the song—slow, swaying, and steady as hell.

Because he wasn’t rushing.

He wasn’t nervous.

He wasn’t second-guessing a damn thing.

Joe Barnes already knew she was it.

He was just letting her feel it with every step.

Riley didn’t rush to fill the silence Joe left.

She didn’t need to.

The way he looked at her—quiet, steady, like he was memorizing a moment he’d finally been allowed to hold—told her everything she’d ever wondered. Everything she’d ever been afraid to ask. Everything she’d tried to outrun.

And when he said he didn’t need to practice?

Her chest stuttered once, then softened. His thumb on her cheek, the warmth in his voice, the way he listed Goldfish and midnight feedings like they were sacred things—

It unraveled her in the gentlest, sweetest way.

She lifted one hand to his jaw, brushing her thumb along the faint stubble there, grounding herself in the fact that he was here. That she was. That they were finally standing in the same place at the same time without ghosts pulling at the edges.

“Of course you have a speech ready,” she murmured, smiling in that way she only ever smiled for him—small, warm, a little in awe. “You’ve always been five steps ahead of me.”

He kissed her temple, slow and deep, and the tenderness in it made her eyes sting again—but not in the falling-apart way.

In the healing way.

She leaned into him fully now, arms looping around his neck as the two of them swayed through the dim bar like the jukebox had been waiting years to play this exact song for this exact moment.

His forehead rested against hers, breath warm, chest pressed to hers in that easy, certain way that told her he wasn’t guessing at any of this. He was choosing it. Choosing her.

“Feels like we are buildin’ it,” she whispered back, fingers slipping into the soft hair at the nape of his neck. “Piece by piece.”

The music softened. The last notes rolled through the air like a sigh.
And then—quiet.

Just them.

Just their breathing.

Just the warmth between their hands.

Riley let her forehead rest against his for a final moment of the dance, eyes closed, bodies still swaying even after the jukebox clicked over into silence.

Then she exhaled a soft little breath, one that carried more certainty than she’d felt in years.

“Okay,” she whispered, brushing her nose along his. “If we keep doing this, I’m stayin’ here all night.”

Joe smiled against her cheek—softening, not teasing—and she pulled back enough to meet his eyes again.

“But,” she added, voice warm and already shifting back into real life, “we gotta go get the rugrats.”

A small grin tugged at her lips as she smoothed a hand down the front of his shirt.

“They’re waiting on us. And Mama probably already fed them way too much sugar.”

She threaded her fingers through his, lacing them tight, lifting their joined hands between them.

“Come on, Barnes,” she said softly, tugging him toward the door. “Let’s go pick up our chaos gremlins.”

Her thumb brushed his knuckles.

“Our family’s waiting.”

Joe didn’t move at first.

He just looked at her—his girl, his home, his everything—with that quiet kind of awe that never seemed to wear off. Even now. Even after all this time. Even after the sharp edges of their past had been sanded down by the steady work of choosing each other again, day after day.

She said our family’s waiting, and damn if that didn’t hit him like a freight train made of Goldfish crumbs and baby monitor static and everything he’d ever wanted wrapped up in a voice he’d never stopped loving.

He let her pull him a few steps toward the door, their hands still laced, but then he stopped—just for a second. Just long enough to tug her back into him.

Not rough. Not rushed. Just sure.

His hand came to rest at her lower back as he leaned in and kissed her—slow, steady, the kind of kiss that said yeah, we’ve got kids to pick up, and yeah, real life’s waitin’, but this? This mattered too.

It wasn’t a kiss meant to linger.

It was a kiss meant to land.

To remind her she wasn’t the only one who felt like she could stay forever in this moment.

When he pulled back, their foreheads brushed again, and his voice came low, thick with something real:

“Best damn chaos I’ve ever known.”

He let that sit between them for a beat—then gave her hand a gentle squeeze and let her lead them the rest of the way out.

Because their family was waiting.

And Joe Barnes?

He’d never been more ready to show up.