“You’ll need to soften all the corners.”
“I already bought the plastic things to do that.”
“It’s terrifying,” I said solemnly. “We should baby-proof everything immediately. Including the ceiling.”
Morgan snorted, mouth full of pizza. “Way ahead of you.”
“You’re going to bubble-wrap the light fixtures, aren’t you?”
“Already priced it,” he smirked. “Just kidding.” Then he shook his head, smiling, and leaned back on his hands. “I’m thinking shelves in here,” he said, nodding at the empty wall. “Low ones. For books. And toys. Lots of soft pillows she can make a nest in with things she can reach.”
“Sounds perfect.”
We ate like that for a while, talking about small things.
“Drapes,” Morgan said suddenly, pointing with the crust of his pizza. “We need them. Blackout ones for the bedroom, but not too heavy. I don’t want it to feel closed-in.”
“Of course you don’t,” I said. “Light, but practical. Very on brand.”
He smiled faintly. “And storage. Nothing tall she could pull over. Baskets maybe. Labels so I don’t forget what goes where.”
“I can already see this turning into an organizational system,” I teased. “Color-coded?”
“Don’t push it,” he said, but there was amusement there. “Also, lamps. Softer light. Overhead lighting is… a lot.”
I nodded. “I’ll cancel my dream of industrial spotlights.”
“Thank you,” he said dryly. “You can keep one ridiculous design choice. Just one.”
“Generous.”
I watched him fuss over Gabbi, adjusting the cushion under her head and my heart hurt with how much I loved this man.
“I love you, Morgan,” I murmured, and he sent me a thoughtful glance, then reached out and laced our fingers.
“I love you too,” he said simply.
“Say it again,” I demanded, and he smiled so damn beautifully.
“Do I have to?” he teased.
“Over and over,” I demanded.
“I love you, Cole.”
I kissed him then. And kissed him some more. And picked up Gabbi so we could dance around the kitchen for absolutely no reason.
He loves me. I love him.
We’re a family in the making.
EIGHTEEN
Epilogue - Morgan
Gabbi turned one today.
We didn’t do anything big. No rented hall, no balloons scraping the ceiling, no crowd. Just our small apartment, the one that still smelled faintly of paint and pizza and us, and the people who mattered.
