"About damn time," someone shouts—Tor, I think, Dalla's brother.
Dalla laughs, wiping her eyes. "We've only been together for like six weeks."
"And you're already pregnant and engaged. Keeping it classy, sis."
She flips him off, which only makes everyone laugh harder.
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of congratulations and hugs and too many questions about wedding dates and baby names.
Fern wants to know if we've thought about venues—she has opinions, many opinions, about the perfect location for a wedding.
Everly and the other old ladies want to know every single detail of how I picked the ring, and when I tell her about my FaceTime session with Revna they all seem impressed.
"I knew it was the one," she says, admiring the ring on Dalla's finger. "The second I saw it, I knew."
"You have good taste," Dalla tells her.
Through it all, Dalla stays by my side, her hand in mine, the diamond glinting on her finger.
Every time someone congratulates us, she looks at me with this expression of pure, radiant joy that makes my chest ache.
I did that. I put that look on her face.
Later, when the party has wound down and most of the guests have headed home, we find ourselves sitting on the porch swing watching the fireflies dance across the darkening yard.
The house is quiet behind us—Fern and Runes have gone inside to clean up, giving us space.
Dalla leans her head against my shoulder, her fingers playing with her engagement ring.
Twisting it back and forth, catching the last light of the fading sun.
"Can I ask you something?" she says.
"Anything."
"Do you want a boy or a girl?"
I consider the question seriously.
A boy—someone to teach, to train, to pass on whatever wisdom I've managed to accumulate over the years.
Someone to play football with, to take fishing, to show how to be a good man in a world that doesn't always reward goodness.
Or a girl—fierce and stubborn like her mother, with blue eyes and blonde hair and a smile that could bring men to their knees.
Someone I'd have to protect from the world while also teaching her to protect herself.
Both options terrify me.
Both options fill me with a joy I don't have words for.
"It doesn't matter to me," I say finally. "Because it'll be a combination of us both. Your strength, your creativity, your heart. And maybe a little of my stubbornness, god help us all."
She laughs softly. "That poor kid doesn't stand a chance."
"No," I agree. "But they'll be loved. Fiercely, unconditionally loved. That's what matters."
"They will be." She leans her head against my shoulder, her body warm against mine. "I'm scared, you know. About being a mom. About screwing it up."
