She sighs but complies. He guides her up the porch steps, through the house, up the stairs. My heart is pounding. What if she hates it? What if it’s not what she wanted?
But then Charlie opens the door, and I know it’s perfect.
“Okay,” Charlie says softly. “Open.”
She does.
And she gasps.
The walls are summer sky blue. Twinkle lights cast a warm, golden glow across the space. Gauzy white curtains filter afternoon sun through the windows. And in the center sits a huge floor mattress, waiting for all the blankets and pillows we bought today.
“It’s a nest!” Her voice cracks on the words. I can feel her trying to hold back the tidal wave of emotion. The bond we’re building hums between us, fragile and new.
She steps into the room slowly, reverently, then spins in a circle, taking it all in. The lights. The curtains. The space we made just for her.
But it’s the wall of shelves beneath the windows that breaks her.
Rows and rows of books. Her books. Charlie told us he remembered how she used to hide them from her father, sneaking them into her room like contraband. It only took a couple of phone calls to track them down.
“How did you—” Her voice shatters. “Charlie, how did you know?”
“I’ve always known.” Charlie moves closer. “I used to see you sneaking them in. Hiding them under your bed. I never told anyone. They were yours.”
She launches herself into his arms, her body shaking with sobs she’s trying and failing to hold back.
“Fuck, you assholes,” she whispers against his chest. “This is perfect. You’re all perfect.”
My chest tightens. Yeah. This is what I wanted. What we all wanted.
It takes an hour to haul everything upstairs and help her arrange it.
Willa builds her nest with the precision of an artist—layering blankets just so, arranging pillows in specific clusters, adjusting the curtains until the light hits exactly right. We help where she directs us, but mostly we just watch her work.
She’s glowing. In her element. Happy.
When she finally steps back to survey her work, I’ve never seen her look more content.
“It’s perfect,” she breathes, turning to face us.
Then she closes her eyes and falls backward onto the nest like she’s been doing it her whole life. Like she belongs here.
The image sears itself into my brain—Willa surrounded by softness and light, her hair fanned out across the pillows, her face relaxed and peaceful. This woman, in her nest, in our home. It’s the kind of memory I’ll carry to my deathbed.
She burrows deeper into the blankets and pillows, practically disappearing into them. The room is awash in soft light now. Outside, the sun has set completely.
Her breathing evens out. She’s already asleep.
“Come on,” I murmur to the pack, jerking my head toward the door. “Let’s leave her to it.”
We back out quietly, closing the door with barely a sound.
In the hallway, Jake grins at Charlie. “I’ll start dinner.”
Charlie nods, but he’s staring at the closed door like he can see through it to where Willa’s sleeping.
I know the feeling.
Suddenly, retirement sounds like the best fucking thing in the world if it means I get to spend every day like this—with this woman, in this house, wrapped up in her arms while she sleeps in her nest.
