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I don’t have to look to know it’s Vic.

“Didn’t think I ever would again either,” I say, eyes still on the page, not needing to pretend.

He takes a slow sip, then says it quiet, honest. “Murph would be proud.”

I don’t deflect. Don’t hide behind sarcasm or attitude. Instead, I look up and give him a small smile. “I think so too.”

And I do.

I’ve spent so long scared that picking up a pencil again would feel like bleeding. Like carving into an old scar. But drawing with Dallas…it’s different.

Most evenings, Henry and Dallas are gone before the sun’s fully tucked below the trees—rods slung over their shoulders, boots thudding down the porch steps, their laughter echoing into the woods like it’s always belonged there. Like they’ve been doing it for years, not just a few weeks.

After Dallas met the Wilder clan, Henry caught him saying he’s never been fishing—softly, like the words themselves were too heavy to admit. He didn’t look anyone in the eye when he said it, just stared down at his hands like the confession made him smaller. Henry didn’t miss a beat. Just stood up, grabbed two rods, and said, “Hell no. Come on, D. Let’s fix that.”

And just like that—Thunder Lake became theirs.

But on the nights they stay in, it’s just me and Dallas at the kitchen table. No TV. No phones. Just two sketchbooks, a mess of pencils, and the kind of silence that feels intentional. Comfortable.

We don’t talk much. We don’t need to.

He’ll draw fish with fangs and Henry reeling in sea monsters. I’ll sketch them both—Henry’s stubborn jaw, Dallas’s wide-eyed grin. Sometimes, just for a breath or two, it feels like everything’s okay. Like the ache in my chest has been scooped out and replaced with something warm.

Something like peace.

But it never lasts.

Because no matter how many smiles Dallas gives me…no matter how many quiet, steady glances Henry throws my way from the living room couch…there’s always that voice. That awful, insidious voice that creeps in the second the room goes still.

You don’t belong here.

Not really.

You’re a stand-in. A soft place to land until someone better comes along. Someone who can give Henry the things you can’t. A baby. A future that looks like all those perfect little family pictures on greeting cards and fridge magnets.

I swallow hard and blink down at my sketchpad, eyes burning.

Because no matter how much I try to shake it, the truth stays buried in my bones: I can’t have children. It’s final. Unforgiving. It makes me feel…broken. Like a defective part in a machine that still wants to work.

And as much as Henry’s never once made me feel less for it, I see it in the corners of things. The way his eyes linger on other people's kids. The pause in his breath when Maddox palms Evie’s swollen belly. The quiet ache in his smile when Dallas leans into his side.

I see it. I feel it.

I know staying means settling.

That all I’ll ever be is a temporary patch on something bigger. Something I’ll never be able to give.

Dallas hands me a new drawing without a word. It’s the three of us again—sitting at this table, light spilling over our faces like sunshine. Only this time, he’s drawn a flower in the center of the table. A wildflower. Its petals are a little uneven, a little unruly, but it’s still bright. Still blooming. In shaky block letters underneath, he’s written:

Home.

I have to look away. I can’t let him see the way my lips tremble.

Because I want to stay. God, I do. I want this more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my life. But want has never been enough to silence the guilt. Or the fear. Or the thought that one day, Henry will look at me across this same table and wonder what he gave up by loving me.

Wonder what he could’ve had—if only he hasn’t wasted all these years waiting for me. If only he’d chosen someone whole.

I reach across the table and ruffle Dallas’s hair, letting my hand linger on the crown of his head a second longer than I mean to. He just grins and keeps drawing like I didn’t just fall apart in front of him.