I nodded, not catching the shift in her tone. “Yeah. I figured with the cabin, the lifestyle?—”
“I want at least three.”
The words came out quiet, almost tentative. I really looked at her then and saw it—worry flickering beneath her calm, like she was bracing herself.
“Okay,” I said carefully. “Three’s not?—”
“I know we just met,” she interrupted, her fingers fidgeting with the handle of her mug. “And I know I don’t have any right to make demands. But I need to be honest about what I want, even if it’s too soon. I spent my whole life not saying what I wanted. I can’t do that anymore.”
Her voice wavered, and I realized this wasn’t about kids. It was about trust. About whether she could believe I’d make room for her dreams instead of asking her to shrink them.
“Hey.” I set my coffee down and crossed the room, crouching beside her chair so we were eye level. “Talk to me. What’s going on in that head of yours?”
She took a shaky breath. “My parents had my whole life planned out—how many kids I’d have, where I’d live, who I’d marry. Whenever I wanted something different, they made me feel selfish for even asking.” She met my gaze, vulnerable but determined. “I promised myself I’d never do that again. Never make myself smaller to fit someone else’s vision. Even if it meant losing something I really wanted.”
The weight of it hit me hard.
“Sydney.” I took her hands, wrapping mine around her cold fingers. “When I said one kid, that wasn’t a rule. It was just something I assumed back when I thought I’d be doing this alone.” I squeezed gently. “I’ve never planned a future with anyone before. Never had to think about what someone else might want.”
“And now?”
“Now there’s you.” I didn’t look away. “And what I want more than quiet, more than simple, more than any half-baked plan I made when I was lonely—is you. If you want three kids, we’ll have three. If you want more, we’ll figure it out together. None of that was ever set in stone.”
She searched my face, looking for hesitation. For a catch.
She didn’t find one.
The tension drained from her shoulders. Her eyes shone, and then she was out of her chair and in my lap, her arms around my neck, her mouth on mine. I caught her instinctively, kissing her until we were both breathless.
“Sorry,” she murmured when we finally pulled back. “I just needed to know.”
“Don’t apologize.” I cupped her face, brushing away the tear that had slipped free. “You’re allowed to have boundaries. You’re allowed to want things. That’s not something you ever have to apologize for. Not with me.”
She kissed me again, softer this time, and we eventually migrated back to the table to finish our cooling coffee. The conversation flowed easily now—open, unguarded. We talked about weddings, about expanding the cabin, about whether it made more sense to add on or build something new.
“At least three kids means at least two more bedrooms,” I said, already running numbers in my head. “Bigger kitchen. Maybe a mudroom, unless we want half the mountain tracked inside.”
Sydney laughed, the sound filling the cabin. “You’re already planning a mudroom. We’ve been together less than a day.”
“I’m a planner.”
“I thought you said you were bad at this.”
“I’m bad at dating apps,” I said. “Construction I can handle.”
We talked timelines. Whether we cared what anyone else thought. About her volunteering once she was settled, finding her place in town.
“Actually,” I said, “there’s something coming up you might be interested in. Dr. Hanson—you remember, the vet clinic next to the firehouse?”
She nodded. “You pointed it out yesterday.”
“She’s got a big project starting. Some kind of puppy mill bust. Dozens of animals need care, fostering, transport. She asked if I could use my trailer to help move them.”
Sydney’s eyes lit up. “Can I help?”
“I figured you’d want to.” I smiled. “I’ll introduce you to her next week.”
“I’d love that.” She squeezed my hand. “Thank you for thinking of me.”
