Zayden laughs, that low rumble I love, and starts dismantling our “door” so we can escape. Maisie bursts out into the living room like she’s been trapped for hours instead of minutes.
I crawl out after her, my knees protesting from too long on the hard floor, and Zayden follows with a groan, stretching his back like he’s aged thirty years in the last hour.
“I’m too old for blanket forts,” he mutters.
“You’re twenty-nine.”
“Trust me, in hockey years, that’s ancient.”
I watch Maisie dig through her toy bin, already onto the next thing, the fort forgotten behind us in a heap of blankets and pillows. And I think about all the years I spent building walls instead of forts. All the rules I made to keep myself safe from exactly this—Sunday mornings with pancake batter on the counter and a little girl who wished on stars for someone like me.
I never expected this. Never let myself want it.
But it’s here anyway, and I’m so grateful.
Zayden’s arms wrap around me from behind, his chin coming to rest on top of my head. “I love you,” he murmurs, low enough that only I can hear.
I lean back into him, into the solid warmth of his chest, into this life I somehow stumbled into when I wasn’t looking.
“I love you too.”
Maisie glances up from her toys. “Are you guys being mushy again?”
“Extremely,” Zayden confirms.
She rolls her eyes—a move she’s definitely picked up from me—and goes back to her dinosaurs.
And I just stand there, wrapped in his arms, watching his daughter play, feeling safe and loved and happier than I thought possible.
This is it? This is what I was so afraid of?
Turns out, it feels a lot like home.
33
SKYWRITING AND OTHER BAD IDEAS
Zayden
ONE MONTH LATER
“What about skywriting?”
Banks stares at me like I’ve suggested we rob a bank. “Skywriting.”
“Yeah. You know, the plane thing. Writes words in the sky.” I motion with my finger.
“I know what skywriting is, Zay. I’m questioning your sanity for suggesting it.”
We’re sitting in a booth at an overpriced steakhouse downtown, supposedly having a “guys’ lunch,” but really, I’m interrogating my best friend about romantic gestures because apparently, I have no idea what I’m doing.
“What’s wrong with skywriting?”
He lifts one brow. “Besides the fact that it’s tacky, weather-dependent, and she might not even be looking up at the right moment?” Banks takes a long sip of his water. “Nothing. It’s perfect. Go for it.”
“You’re not being helpful.”
“You asked for my opinion. My opinion is that skywriting is stupid.”
