I put a hand on the back of her neck where the baby hairs are soft. "Maybe I needed to hear myself say it."
"Me, too," she admits quietly. She leans back to look at my face. "Terms?"
"Two years. No move unless I ask."
"And will you ask?"
"No." It comes out somewhere between a laugh and a promise. "Not unless they trade the pizza place."
She snorts. "We'd cause a riot." Her fingers trace my wrist. "Does it feel good?"
"Yeah," I say, surprised by how easy the answer is. "Like choosing to breathe instead of waiting for the air to run out."
She smiles in a way that makes my knees weak. The kiss isn't a celebration. It's an exhale. It tastes like pizza sauce and cinnamon and finally letting myself want something that isn't complicated. When I pull back, I keep our foreheads together until the room steadies.
"Proud of you," she says.
"Proud of us," I correct, because she's been carrying just as much as I have.
We do the rest of it the way we always do. Dishes, homework check, sight words that still give Aubrey trouble. A couch fort that meets my safety standards if not my aesthetic ones. Bath time, bedtime, unicorn, lamp glow. The quiet that comes after.
Downstairs, Oakley props her ankle on the coffee table and pretends not to see me notice. I sit close enough that my knee touches hers.
"You tell Thorn?" she asks.
"He knew before I did." I smirk. "But I'll sign the paper tomorrow."
"Do I get to be there?"
"If you want." I bump her foot gently. "You are management, Katibug."
She tips her head to the side. "I like being yours," she says, and there's no wobble in it.
"You are," I say.
We leave the TV off. The house hums with the sound of the heater kicking on. Outside, a storm rolls over the hills. I hear the far-off crack of thunder before I see the flash of lightning—thin and distant.
Oakley feels me go still and threads her fingers through mine. "It's just weather," she reminds me.
"I know." I squeeze her hand once. We step out onto the porch because I don't need to prove anything anymore. The boards are cool under my socks as the air shifts.
Lightning flickers again, far off. I don't count between flash and thunder. I don't scan the street. I just stand beside the woman who turned my house back into a home and watch the sky.
"Tomorrow," I say. "Sign the contract. Practice. Pickup. Your application."
"Pizza?" she adds.
"Obviously." I lean down and press my mouth to the spot where her jaw meets her ear. "We keep making it boring."
She laughs into my chest. "You mean safe."
"Yeah," I admit. "That."
"Safe is good," she whispers.
"If it means the three of us are together? Absolutely."
She looks up at me, and her smile says everything I need to hear.
