Just finality.
Doc didn’t ask questions when I told him I was going.
He just said, “You want me there?”
I shook my head.
“I’ve got this.”
And I did.
Now he moves toward me, our son tucked against his chest.
“You’re staring,” he says.
“I’m allowed.”
He arches a brow. “At what?”
“At my husband.”
He snorts softly. “You mean the guy who just got spit up on?”
I step closer and wipe a small line of milk from his shoulder.
“You’re still the most rugged man I’ve ever seen,” I tell him.
“Rugged,” he repeats dryly.
“And carrying.”
“Carrying?”
“Yes. You carry all of it.”
His eyes soften at that.
He shifts the baby into one arm and reaches for me with the other, pulling me against his side.
“You happy?” he asks quietly.
I look around the cabin.
The worn wood floors. The sound of Saints’ bikes in the distance. The baby in his arms. The wedding ring on my finger.
Two years ago I was inventory.
Now I’m home.
“Yes,” I say. “I love you.”
His hand settles at the back of my neck, steady and sure.
“I love you, Carly.”
The house is quiet.
The baby monitor hums low on the dresser. Wind moves through the trees outside, soft and steady.
