The celebration was warm and loud. Children playing in the new playground visible through the windows. Adults talking and laughing, sharing food, rebuilding the community that had been scattered. Music played from somewhere, something Latin and joyful that made people dance in the hallways.
Archer stayed quiet through most of it, watching with an expression I couldn’t quite read. When someone asked if he was the nonprofit director who’d made this possible, he deflected immediately.
“I just helped facilitate the legal work,” he said. “The community did this. The families who never stopped fighting to come home.”
I saw the humility in it. How he was doing the work without needing credit, how he’d genuinely changed from the man who’d put his name on buildings and measured success in profit margins.
Mrs. Rodriguez cornered us eventually, pulling me into a hug that squeezed the air from my lungs.
“Your father would be so proud,” she said, holding my face between her hands. “Look at you. A lawyer helping families just like he would have wanted.”
My throat went tight. “Thank you.”
She looked at Archer then, something considering in her expression. “And you. You’re the one who made this happen?”
“I’m one of many people who?—”
“Don’t be modest.” She patted his cheek like he was one of her grandchildren. “You gave us our home back. That matters more than you know.”
She moved on before he could respond, leaving him standing there looking overwhelmed.
“You okay?” I asked quietly.
“I don’t deserve her gratitude.”
“You’re getting it anyway.” I squeezed his hand. “Accept it. Let people be grateful for the good you’ve done.”
He looked at me for a long moment, then nodded.
We stayed for two hours. My mother introduced Archer to old neighbors, and he listened to their stories with genuine attention—asking about their lives, what they needed, and how the nonprofit could better serve the community.
He’d become the person I’d thought he was that first night on the terrace—or maybe he’d always been capable of being thisperson and just needed to be broken down completely before he could rebuild himself right.
During the drive back that evening, exhausted and emotionally wrung out, Archer’s hand found mine across the console. We’d been quiet for most of the ride, processing everything that had happened, when he pulled over suddenly into an empty parking lot.
“Are you sure about this?” he asked, turning to face me. “About us?”
“What?”
“Rebuilding. Trying again. All of it.” He looked genuinely uncertain. “Because if it’s too much, if the history is too painful, if you’re just doing this because you feel obligated—I’ll understand. I’ll step back. I just need to know you actually want this and aren’t just convincing yourself you should.”
I unbuckled my seatbelt and turned to face him fully, taking both his hands in mine.
“I’m sure,” I said. “I want to see who we can become when we start from honesty instead of lies.”
He pulled me toward him awkwardly across the console, his arms wrapping around me as best they could in the confined space. “I love you. I’ll spend however long it takes proving I deserve your trust.”
“Love isn’t about deserving.” I pulled back enough to look at him. “It’s about choosing. And I’m choosing you. Choosing us.”
He kissed me then, soft and reverent and full of promise. Right there in a parking lot with the city lights reflecting off the windshield.
“Come home with me,” he said when we finally broke apart, and the confidence in his voice made my stomach flip. “I want to wake up with you tomorrow.”
“Your place?”
“My place.” His smile was slow and devastating. “Unless you have objections.”
“None at all.”
