He would build the room around her—not around his cowardice, or his weakness, or the sterile Barrett taste.
And maybe, if he was lucky—if he didn’t screw this up—she’d let him back in. Let him live there with her.
Tom stood, grabbing his coat and the plans, pulse steadying into something close to determined.
Tonight wasn’t just dinner.
Tonight could be the beginning of the version of them he should’ve made from the start.
He grabbed his keys.
He had groceries to buy. And a design to pitch.
And a wife to win back.
CHAPTER 63
Lauren
The porch lightglowed golden against the falling dusk when Lauren pulled into the driveway.
For a second her heart stuttered.
Tom was home.
Her hands lingered on the steering wheel before she finally turned off the engine. The house looked the same as it always had, but everything inside her felt different. The idea that Tom was intheirkitchen again made her chest ache in the best and strangest way.
When she opened the door, the smell of garlic and rosemary greeted her. Music played softly somewhere—light and poppy. The sort of thing that made her smile.
She toed off her boots, heart ticking faster than she wanted to admit, and followed the sound toward the kitchen. She paused in the doorway.
“Hey,” she said. “You’re wearing my apron.”
Tom turned from the stove, wooden spoon in hand. His hair was a little messy, sleeves rolled up, her floral apron tied loosely at his waist.
He looked down as if he’d forgotten, then grinned. “Seemed appropriate.”
The air was warm. There was a small vase of flowers on the counter, and two plates set at the kitchen island.
Lauren leaned against the counter, watching him move. There was something achingly normal about it—the way he checked the pasta, reached for the salt, hummed under his breath. She’d missed this. The simplicity. The shared space.
He handed her a glass of wine.
She took a sip, watching him over the rim.
It wasn’t the electric urgency of the weekend—it was quieter, steadier.
He reached for the colander, muttering something about overcooked noodles, and she saw the small burn on his wrist. “You okay?” she asked.
He smiled sheepishly. “Apparently boiling water is hot.”
She caught his wrist gently, she pulled it to her mouth and gave it a soft kiss. Even now, her instinct was to take away his pain.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then he exhaled. “I’m really glad you said yes.”
Lauren looked up at him—at this man she loved. At this man who had looked down on her.
