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I pull her closer, my arms wrapping around her. "You're perfect, Megan. Every part of you."

She settles back against my chest, and we stay like that for a long time, wrapped in each other and the quiet intimacy we've built.

An hour later, I walk downstairs and find Megan in my kitchen, barefoot, wearing one of my flannel shirts over a pair of shorts. Her dark brown hair is piled into a messy bun, and she's carefully turning French toast in a cast-iron skillet.

I stop in the doorway.

Seeing her here—comfortable, barefoot, completely natural in my home—hits me harder than I expected.

I walk up behind her and wrap my arms around her waist, pulling her back against my chest.

She leans into me with a soft laugh. "Good morning. You're hovering."

"I'm admiring," I murmur, kissing the side of her neck. "You look incredible in my kitchen."

"I'm trying not to burn your breakfast," she teases, elbowing my ribs. "If you distract the chef, you get charred crusts."

"I'll eat whatever you put in front of me."

She turns in my arms, her hands flat against my chest, her brown eyes warm. "Is that a legal guarantee, Mr. Rhodes?"

"Binding and irrevocable."

I kiss her forehead, and we sit down to eat.

Megan's gaze drifts to the refrigerator door, where several of Kayla's drawings are held up with magnets. One is a detailed colored-pencil illustration of a golden retriever wearing a detective badge.

Her expression softens. "Kayla told me all about her mystery book project. She was so proud of this badge idea."

"She worked on it for two hours straight," I say. "She insisted the dog did half the detective work, so he deserved official credentials."

Megan laughs. "She's such a thoughtful little girl, Brock. You've done an incredible job raising her."

"It was terrifying at first," I admit. "Balancing Rhodes, Mercer & Vance with being the father she needed. But she became my compass. Everything I build is for her."

Megan reaches across the table and lays her hand over mine. "It shows."

That quiet understanding binds us more tightly than any hotel room ever could.

We spend the rest of the weekend tangled in bed and talking on the sofa, learning each other's rhythms and fears. By Sunday afternoon, as Megan lies against my chest, the reality of our circumstances creeps back in.

"What happens if someone notices?" she asks quietly. "If parents start talking, or if the administration questions my professionalism..."

I tighten my hold around her shoulders. "If we face questions, we handle them together. But your career is more at risk than mine, and I won't make that decision for you."

She nods against my chest, but the tension in her frame lingers.

On Tuesday afternoon, I arrive at the school for pickup and wait near the double doors. Jennifer Marsh spots me before Kayla comes out.

"Brock, I was hoping I'd run into you." She steps into the hallway with a bright smile. "I could really use a strong pair of hands in my classroom."

I glance at my watch. "I'm picking up Kayla today."

"It would only take a few minutes." She rests her hand against my forearm. "I promise I won't work you too hard."

"You'll have to ask the office about getting some help."

Her smile falters before she catches herself. "Well, aren't you all business?"