The question was gentle, careful, an invitation instead of a demand—and it hit me so hard my whole body swayed.
I closed my eyes, letting the memories flood in. “His hair glowed yellow in the sunlight,” I began. A sound that was a mixture of a sob and a laugh at the same time.
Dean’s hand tightened at the back of my neck, and he pulled me closer.
“He had the most perfect little nose I’d ever seen,” I said “All babies have cute noses. But his… I don’t know. His was—mine.”
Dean let out a breath against my temple. A sound filled with emotion and understanding.
I swallowed hard against his chest. “He would curl his fingers around my pinky so tight.”
“Aww,” Dean murmured, pulling me closer. “Go on.”
And so, I did.
I told him things I’d never told another person.
About the family I’d chosen to adopt him. About how I’d kissed his forehead every night of the four weeks that he was mine. About how the last time I held him, I whispered into his ear that he would never remember me, but that I would remember him every single day of my life.
And Dean listened.
To every word.
Every breath.
Every cry
As though I was sharing something sacred.
And for the first time in years, the memories of my son didn’t feel like chains around my neck—didn’t feel like shame or failure or something I had to keep hidden to survive.
Eventually my eyes slipped closed, and in that quiet space between us, I realized something achingly simple: I had never felt more accepted in my life than I did in Dean Weston’s arms.
Thirty-One
Sunlight streamedthrough the cabin windows, casting golden streaks across the wooden floor. The sheets were warm around my body, cocooning me in the softness of half-sleep. For a fleeting moment, I let myself linger there, not quite ready to let go of the weightless haze between dreams and waking.
Then the smell hit me—warm, sweet, familiar.
I rolled over, blinking against the light, then froze. Dean stood in the tiny kitchenette, bare-chested, a pair of gray sweatpants slung low on his hips. He was moving awkwardly around the kitchen, his back flexing as he flipped a pancake onto a plate with all the grace of a man who clearly didn’t do this on a regular basis.
George sat loyally at his side, tail thumping against the cabinet as though waiting for something to drop. He let out a deep bark, and Dean immediately hushed him. “Shhhh… don’t wake her.” But then he glanced over his shoulder, and a grin broke out across his face, boyish and unguarded, when he noticed me.
“I was trying to surprise you,” he said, holding up the spatula like a goof.
My lips curved despite the heaviness in my chest. He looked so proud and out of place, yet so heartbreakingly perfect that I wanted to freeze time.
He plated a small stack of pancakes—making a face at the ones that were a little too dark before tossing them into the trash. “Turns out pancakes have a learning curve. The first two were tragic. The rest…” He carried the plate over and stopped beside the bed. “Lie to me if they’re terrible.”
I pushed myself upright against the headboard, tugging the blankets higher over my chest. “I thought pancakes were supposed to be one of your specialties,” I teased.
He shook his head as he handed me the fork, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “I said I could cook them,” he admitted, “not that they’d win any awards.”
I cut off a small piece and lifted it to my mouth. The pancake was lopsided—one edge a little too crisp, the other soft and golden. Hardly perfect. But when I chewed, warmth spread through me anyway. Not from the butter or the syrup, but from the simple fact that he’d done this for me. That he’d stood here, wrestling a frying pan, with George pacing at his side…all because he wanted to make me breakfast.
I swallowed, my lips twitching. “They’re perfect,” I said, and I meant it.
Something in his shoulders eased, though he tilted his head to the side and made a face like he didn’t believe me. Then he leaned against the wall, folded his arms loosely across his chest, and for a moment just watched me eat.
