"Yeah?" Zach asked, his voice quieter now.
"Yeah," Jase said. "And if you ever doubt it, look around. We may be a lot, but we're fucking fantastic."
Zach didn't answer right away. But the smile stayed, lingering in the corners of his mouth as he gathered the silverware.
He wasn't ready to call it falling in love.
But maybe it was something that felt a lot like home.
"Now, first lesson from your relationship sensei," Jase said. "When you find someone who can handle Babushka without having a nervous breakdown, you lock. That. Down."
"You're getting way ahead of things. We're just working together and figuring things out."
Jase snorted. "Yeah, and I was just 'tasting the frosting' with Heather in the cookie kitchen. My point is, when you know, you know. And she's definitely the one."
The one.
"Zachary." Babushka's voice cut through his spiral. "Come. Ve need man's opinion on centerpieces and Drake doesn't care."
The rest of the night blurred together. More wedding talk. More family stories. More watching Piper seamlessly integrate herself into the controlled chaos of his life.
By the time they were saying goodbyes, Zach felt like he was underwater, everything muffled and still but oddly urgent.
The drive back was quiet—Zach's knuckles white on the steering wheel, his mind racing.
"I got some great ideas from Anna. Thank you for this time with her," Piper said.
Zach nodded. "Of course."
"And they're amazing. Your family," Piper said. "You're lucky."
He glanced over. She was looking out the window, her profile illuminated by passing streetlights.
"They can be a lot," he managed.
"No, they're..." She hesitated. "They're connected. Present. My family is so fractured after all the divorces. My mom, dad, and sister? They're all scattered across different states, different lives."
Zach didn't know what to say about that. He'd always taken his family's closeness for granted, even when it drove him crazy.
"Babushka gave me her pirozhki recipe," Piper continued.
He tried to laugh, but it came out strangled. "Yeah, she does that."
"Are you okay? You've gotten quiet."
"I'm fine," he lied. "Tired."
Telling her was out of the question. But not telling her—keeping it locked up—felt worse.
They hesitated at the curb when he parked, neither quite ready to say goodnight. He moved closer across the console, brushing a knuckle under her chin to tilt her face toward his.
"Thanks for coming with," he murmured, his voice low. Her eyes flicked to his mouth.
He leaned in slowly, giving her the chance to turn away if she wanted.
She didn't. Their lips met in a kiss that began muted, careful, then found its gravity.
No rush. There was time in it, weight, the press of everything unsaid. Her hand slid to his chest, steadying herself as the kiss lingered on, breath shared between them.
