I chuckle into her hair. “They already know, baby. There won’t be an interrogation.”
She pulls back, eyes wide. “Are you serious?”
I hum. “From the very beginning. Asked your father for his blessing and all.”
Her breath catches, tears welling in her eyes. She blinks up at me before she whispers, “I love you.”
I brush my thumb across her cheek, smiling. “I love you more, Trouble.”
She exhales slowly, then twists the ring once more before shifting. Her lips find mine instantly, and just like that, I’m hard as a fucking rock. She laughs against my mouth, that wicked spark already lighting up her eyes.
“Well,” she grins, sliding one leg over to straddle me, her thighs bracketing my hips as she leans down to kiss me again, “looks like we’re not sleeping just yet.”
When her mouth meets mine again, it’s not soft. It’s consuming.
I used to think love was about timing. About luck. About choosing someone who made sense. Someone who fit the plan—or whatever half-assed version I’d convinced myself was enough.
But it’s not. It’s this. It’s messy, and loud, and wildly unpredictable. It’s Olivia—barefoot in my kitchen, or standing in a tulip field, soaking wet and beautiful, crying over sticky notes and slow songs. It’s her, snorting when she laughs too hard. Her eyes when she calls me out. Her mouth when she calls mehers.It’s her telling me she loves me like it’s the easiest thing in the world, and me saying it back, not just with words, but with every part of me.
Those three words are a promise, though Olivia deserves more than just love. She deserves certainty. Forever. The fact that she could’ve walked away from me, from my son, is enough to make me want to prove, every damn day, that she made the right choice.
Real love doesn’t ask for perfection. It asks for honesty. For the fight, the choosing, the showing up. For the kind of surrender that feels like freedom. Love isn’t simple. It’s a risk. A leap. A wild promise I never saw coming, and the only one I’ll never let go of.
Bonus Epilogue
Olivia
Six Years Later
“Has anyone seen the rest of the cupcakes?” I call from the kitchen, already knowing the answer is probably no. “Because they were on this bench literally ten minutes ago, and now they’re gone!”
From the backyard, I hear Joseph yell, “TEDDY ATE TWO!”
A chorus of laughter erupts outside. Perfect. The birthday cupcakes are now half-missing, I’m sweating through my dress, and my four-year-old daughter, Lillian, is about to celebrate her birthday with half of the dessert I wasspecificallysaving for the candle moment.
Lillian was the best surprise of our lives. I’d found out I was pregnant that February, just a few weeks after we got engaged. The test sat on the bathroom sink, my heart pounding so hard, I could hear it in my ears. I didn’t even get the chance to freak outbefore Sebastian wrapped his arms around me, kissed me, and said, “We’re doing this, baby.”
We got married that June—nothing fancy, surrounded by the people who mattered most, a quiet ceremony tucked into the hills behind our property. Then, that November, Lillian came barreling into the world like she had something to prove. Ten tiny fingers and toes, a pair of lungs that could rival a siren, and Sebastian’s exact scowl when she didn’t get her way. She’s now become fierce, funny, full of opinions, and currently yelling at Teddy to “save me at least ONE” from outside.
“Xavier!” I yell out toward the patio. “Can you please double-check the drinks for the juice boxes? I swear we had three packs.”
“I’m on it, boss!” he yells back, waving a hand with a half-built balloon arch around his arm.
“Sebastian!” I yell into the hallway. “Bash!”
Nothing.
“I’m going to lose my mind.”
“Already there,” Isla smirks, appearing at the kitchen door like the calming fairy she’s always been. She eyes me knowingly, glancing down at my small four-month baby bump before gently rubbing my arm. “Take a breather, Liv. You’re going to stress the baby out.”
I blow out a breath and place a hand protectively over my belly. Our second baby. This time, not a surprise. We don’t know the gender yet—we want to keep it a surprise this time—but if you ask Sebastian, he’ll say he’s hoping for a boy to “even out the sass ratio.” Whatever. We’ll take whatever blessing God gives us.
“I just want it to be perfect,” I mutter, fussing over the tablecloth that keeps wrinkling in the centre. “It’s her birthday, Isla. Four. I don’t know how that happened. One minute, she’s crawling around with a bottle, the next, she’s demanding blueglittery nail polish and telling everyone that her name is Lillian ‘with two Ls.’”
“And let’s not forget she shares a birthday with her favourite uncle,” Isla adds with a grin.
I can’t help smiling. “Bradley’s already been dragged into face-painting duty. It’s what he gets for being born on the same day.”
