“Really.”
Her grin breaks wide open, but her eyes soften in that way I’ve learned to recognize—when she’s feeling something big but trying to play it cool. She tucks her knees up to her chest, chin resting there.
“I kind of figured,” she admits. “The way you look at her.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. And the way she looks at you.”
My throat tightens. “Feels like she fits with us.”
After a moment, I clear my throat. “You okay with me asking her? I wanted to make sure you were good with it before I did anything.”
She turns to look at me, eyes bright. “Dad, you don’t need my permission.”
“Maybe not. But I wanted it anyway.”
That earns me a small, proud smile. The kind she used to give after a perfect test score or nailing a solo she’d practiced for weeks.
“I think you should,” she says softly. “You both deserve it.”
The words hit harder than I expect. She’s so calm about it. No hesitation. No doubt. Just this steady kind of certainty that makes me realize how far we’ve both come.
I pull her into my side, kiss the top of her head, and she leans against me.
For a second, I can’t find words. It’s all there, though: the gratitude, the relief, the quiet, overwhelming love for both of them.
She pulls back and grins. “Can I help plan the wedding?”
I laugh. “Let’s see if she says yes first.”
By the time the sun dips low, most of Charlotte’s boxes are unpacked.
Charlotte’s curled up on the couch now, legs tucked beneath her, hair falling loose. There’s a half-empty mug on the table beside her and a stack of flattened boxes leaning against the wall. The place already looks more like home than it ever has.
Sophie’s upstairs, on the phone with Maya. Every few seconds, her laughter drifts down the stairs.
Charlotte’s scrolling through her tablet, probably checking something she swore could wait. She looks up when she senses me there.
“What?” she asks, smiling faintly.
“Nothing. Just watching you try to pretend you’re not working.”
She sets the tablet aside, mock offended. “Hey, it’s only emails.”
“Uh-huh.” I cross the room and sit beside her, the couch dipping under my weight.
The moment stretches quiet and warm between us. There’s music playing low—something soft and wordless. Her hand finds mine without looking, fingers tracing the edge of my ring.
“You realize,” she says softly, “you’ve been pacing for the last hour.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. What’s going on in that head of yours?”
I exhale slowly, my thumb finding the edge of the tiny box in my pocket. I turn it over once, twice, like that’ll steady my pulse.
“I talked to your dad last week,” I say quietly.
