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"I love having you here," he murmurs.

I lean back against him, my hands covering his. "I love being here."

"Come to bed," he says, his voice dropping lower. "Let me take care of you."

I turn in his arms, rising on my toes to kiss him. "Yes, Daddy."

His eyes darken, and he lifts me onto the counter, his hands sliding up my thighs. "Say it again."

"Daddy," I whisper, and his mouth crashes down on mine.

He carries me upstairs, and we lose ourselves in each other the way we have so many times before—his hands possessive and sure, my body responding to every command, every touch, every whispered word of praise. Afterward, we lie tangled together in the dark, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my back.

"I can't wait to marry you," he says quietly.

"Soon," I promise.

One evening in February, while Brock is working late, Kayla and I sit at the kitchen table making valentines for her classmates. Her tongue pokes out in concentration as she carefully glues a paper heart onto a card, and I feel something settle in my chest—something warm and permanent and right.

"Miss Megan?" she asks without looking up.

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"Are you going to live here forever now?"

I pause, my glue stick halfway to a piece of construction paper. "I am," I say carefully. "Is that okay with you?"

She nods, still focused on her work. "Good. Daddy smiles more when you're here."

I blink back sudden tears and reach over to squeeze her small hand. "I smile more too."

By March, the house feels completely like ours. My lesson plans spread across the dining room table. Kayla's artwork covers the refrigerator. Brock's coffee mug sits next to mine every morning, and at night, I fall asleep in his arms in the bed we share.

The wedding planning accelerates as spring break approaches. Cora helps me find a dress—ivory lace with long sleeves and a fitted bodice that makes me feel beautiful. Brock's mother insists on handling the flowers, and his sister coordinates with the venue.

Kayla is thrilled when Brock asks if she wants to be the flower girl. She practices walking slowly down the hallway at home, a basket of silk petals in her hands, her face serious with concentration.

"It's going to be perfect," Cora assures me one afternoon as we sit in my classroom after school, finalizing the last details.

"At Halloween, I thought a masked hookup app was a good idea," I say, laughing.

"It was the best terrible idea you've ever had," Cora says, grinning.

She's right.

Spring break arrives with the kind of mild, bright weather that makes everything feel full of possibility. I wake up in our bed and find Brock already awake, propped on one elbow, watching me.

"Good morning, future wife," he says, his voice rough with sleep.

"Good morning, future husband." I reach up to touch his jaw, feeling the scratch of stubble under my palm. "Are you nervous?"

"No." He catches my hand and presses a kiss to my palm. "I've never been more certain of anything in my life."

The ceremony isn't until evening, but the day moves quickly. Brock's parents take Kayla for the afternoon, giving us time to get ready separately—him at the house, me at Cora's apartment across town. Cora helps me with my hair and makeup, her hands steady even though mine are shaking.

"You look stunning," she says when I'm finally dressed, standing in front of her full-length mirror.

The woman looking back at me is someone I barely recognize. The dress fits perfectly, hugging my curves in ways that make me feel powerful instead of self-conscious. My dark hair is swept up in a soft twist, and the diamond studs Brock gave me last month catch the light.