This family is loud and messy and occasionally terrifying, but they're also warm and welcoming in a way I've never experienced.
They argue and laugh and tease each other mercilessly, but underneath it all is a bone-deep love that holds them together through everything—through danger and loss and all the complications of life in the MC world.
I want that. I want it for myself, for Dalla, for our baby.
I want Sunday dinners and holiday chaos and a house full of people who would die for each other without a second thought.
I watch her across the yard, chatting with Everly and a few of the other old ladies.
She's wearing a sundress that shows off her legs and hides the bandages on her stomach, her hair loose around her shoulders.
She's glowing—the pregnancy, maybe, or just the relief of being safe and surrounded by people who love her.
When she laughs at something Everly says, the sound carries across the yard and hits me right in the chest.
I'm going to marry this woman.
The thought isn't new—I've known it for weeks, maybe longer.
From the moment she looked at me with those blue eyes and saw something worth saving, I think some part of me knew I'd never be able to let her go.
But standing here, watching her with her family, it crystallizes into something solid.
Something certain.
Something I can't wait another minute to make real.
I catch Everly's eye across the yard.
She sees my expression and grins.
Does everyone know what I’m about to do?
Then again, I fecking told Rev and she probably told all the old ladies.
Now or never.
I hand the spatula back to Fenrir and cross the yard to where Dalla is standing, my heart pounding harder than it did during the assault on the farmhouse.
This is it.
This is the moment that changes everything.
She looks up when I approach, her smile softening into something private.
Something just for me.
"Hey," she says. "You survived burger duty."
"Barely." I take her hand, feeling the warmth of her skin, the steady pulse of her heartbeat. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"
"Of course." Her brow furrows slightly, concern flickering in her eyes. "Is everything okay?"
"Everything's perfect." I lead her away from the crowd, toward a quiet corner of the yard near an old oak tree.
The same tree, I'm guessing, that she climbed as a kid.
The same tree that's probably witnessed a thousand family memories—birthdays and holidays and ordinary afternoons that seemed unremarkable at the time but built a lifetime of love.
