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I roll onto my back, pulling her with me so she's curled against my side, her head resting on my chest. The ring on her finger catches the moonlight, and I take her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

"When do you want to get married?" I ask.

She's quiet for a moment, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my chest. "Spring break," she says finally. "I want time to plan something beautiful, but I don't want to wait too long."

"Spring break," I repeat, testing the words. "That gives us a few months."

"Is that okay?" she asks, lifting her head to look at me.

"It's perfect," I say, pulling her closer. "I'd marry you tomorrow if I could, but I want to give you the wedding you deserve."

She smiles, her eyes filling with tears again. "Spring break, then."

"Spring break," I agree.

We talk about the wedding—small and intimate, just family and close friends. We talk about Kayla, about including her in the ceremony. We talk about making this house ours together—redecorating, adding her touches to every room, preparing space for the children we want to have.

"I want more kids," I say quietly. "With you."

Megan's hand slides down to rest on my chest, right over my heart. "I want that too," she whispers. "I want everything with you."

I tighten my arms around her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

As we drift off to sleep, I think about the life we're going to build—the wedding in a few months, Kayla as part of our family, the home we'll make together, the children we'll have. Everything I've ever wanted is right here in my arms, and I've never been more grateful for a second chance.

Chapter Nineteen

MEGAN

The first box I unpack in Brock's house—our house, I remind myself—contains my favorite coffee mugs, the ones with chipped handles and faded designs that I've had since college. I stand in the kitchen, holding a mug shaped like an owl, and wonder if they'll look ridiculous next to Brock's sleek, matching set.

"Those are perfect," Brock says from the doorway, and when I turn, his smile is warm and unmistakably proud.

"They're old," I say, suddenly self-conscious.

"They're yours." He crosses the kitchen and takes the owl mug from my hands, setting it carefully in the cabinet next to his. "Which means they belong here."

I kiss him then, standing on my toes in the middle of the kitchen, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes and the life we're building together.

It's the second week of December when I officially move in, and the house transforms slowly around us. My books fill the empty shelves in the living room. My grandmother's quilt drapes across the back of the couch. The bathroom counter gains my skincare products, and the closet in our bedroom makes space for my dresses and sweaters alongside Brock's suits.

Kayla watches the changes with quiet curiosity. The first morning I make her breakfast, she sits at the kitchen table, her small face serious as I set a plate of scrambled eggs in front of her.

"My mom makes them with cheese," she says quietly.

"I can add cheese," I offer, reaching for the refrigerator.

"No." She picks up her fork, still watching me. "These are good too. Different is okay."

My throat tightens, and I nod. "Different is okay," I agree.

By the second week, she's asking me to help her pick out clothes for school. By the third, she's showing me the chapter book she's reading and asking if I think the main character will find her lost dog. I'm careful never to overstep, never to try to replace her mother, but I let myself become part of her world in the small, steady ways she allows.

The winter settles into routines that feel both new and inevitable. Morning coffee while Brock reads case files and I grade papers. Evenings when Kayla shows me her latest drawings or practices her spelling words at the kitchen table. Nights when Brock pulls me into his arms and reminds me exactly why I said yes.

On the weekends when Kayla is with her mother, Brock and I plan the wedding. We choose the venue—a historic inn on the edge of town with exposed brick walls and floor-to-ceiling windows. We taste cakes and select flowers and address invitations at the dining room table while snow falls softly outside.

One evening in late January, after Kayla has gone to bed, Brock finds me in the kitchen putting away dishes. He comes up behind me, his arms sliding around my waist, his mouth brushing the side of my neck.