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But what she never understood—what no one ever told her loud enough—is that she is the damn thing I’ve always wanted.

No baby. No picket fence. No legacy.

Only her.

She thought she had to be whole to be loved. That if she couldn’t give me everything, she shouldn’t give me anything. What she doesn’t see—what I see so fucking clearly—is that she is love. She shows up. She stays. She fights. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts. That’s what makes a mother. That’s what makes a partner. That’s what makes a family. That’s what makes her mine.

I catch her from the corner of my eye, and the tension radiating off her is impossible to miss. She’s sitting too straight, too still—like her spine’s made of steel and the smallest movement might crack her wide open. Her hands are folded tight in her lap, fingers knotted together in a grip so tense her knuckles have gone white.

She hasn’t spoken since we dropped Dallas off for a impromptu sleepover at Mama’s with the boys—and Mercy, who insisted on tagging along like the chaos-loving menace he is. The moment that door closed behind them, it was like someone flipped a switch in her. Her body went still, but the air around her shifted. Heavy. Tense. Loud in a way silence rarely is.

She hasn’t said a word, but her body is telling on her—loud and clear. It’s written in the tight set of her jaw, the way her leg bounces once, twice, then locks still again. That quiet, anxious energy fills every inch of the cab, pressing against my chest until it’s hard to breathe.

“Lou—”

“No.” Her voice slices through the quiet, sharp and immediate.

I inhale slowly, trying to keep my tone steady, gentle. “Just listen to me⁠—”

“I said no.” This time it lands heavier, colder. Final. Like a slammed door. Like the sound of something locking from the inside.

Too fucking bad for her. She’s had well over ten years to close the door, to shut me out, to keep her walls up like they were gospel. But now? Now it’s my turn to blow that bitch wide open—and I’m not asking for permission.

I press harder on the gas, the cruiser’s engine growling as I flick the lights on, ignoring the sharp look she shoots at me and the way her hand flies to the oh-shit handle. Good. Let her hang on.

With jerky, pissed-off movements, I whip the car into the sheriff’s office lot and throw it in park, unbuckling fast enough to make the belt snap back into place.

“Don’t you dare fucking move,” I bark, voice like gravel and fire, slamming the door behind me before she can say a damn word.

I storm through the side entrance, straight to the supply room where Cece keeps all her organizational shit. Paper, clipboards, markers—and a stack of cardboard boxes tucked in the back corner. I grab the whole fucking pile and stomp back out.

I toss the boxes into the back seat like kindling and climb back in, the engine growling as we head home.

I barely put the car in park before grabbing those damned boxes out of the back and dragging her behind me, the gravel crunching beneath our feet as we cross the thirty-six shitty little yards that sit between her house and mine.

Reaching the hiding spot, I pull the spare key free and barrel through the door without waiting for an invitation—like I am storming a damn fortress. I don’t wait for her, I just start packing her shit up.

“What do you think you are doing?”

“Moving you in,” I reply without missing a beat, tossing another box onto the kitchen table with a thud that makes her flinch.

“Henny—”

“No!” I turn to face her, breathing hard. “You don’t get to do that.”

She freezes in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest like armor, jaw clenched tight, but I push forward, every word stripped bare.

“I’ve played by your rules. I sat back while you tried to give me up—telling yourself you weren’t good enough, that you didn’t deserve me.” I point at her. “God damn you, Lou, I’m done. I won’t do it again. I can’t.”

“My heart doesn’t break because you can’t have kids. It breaks because that’s what you reduced me to. Like all I ever wanted from you was a baby, like that was the only version of a future I could live with.” My voice cracks. “And that’s on me. I should’ve made you feel like you were enough. I should’ve loved you harder. Louder. Bigger. So you never had to question it for a single fucking second. I should’ve looked at the distance you put between us and laughed at it, because nothing in this damned life matters without you to share it with wildflower.”

She stares at me, glassy-eyed, then looks down at the box in her hands and says flatly, “I was just going to say…don’t manhandle Sophie’s baby pictures like that.”

I blink. She smirks, and I let out a sound—half laugh, half broken groan—before whispering, “I love you…but fuck you.”

“You know what?” she snaps, the words cutting out of her like glass. “Aunt Joe was right. Surrounded by all this God damn love—people showing up for me, over and over—and I still couldn’t pull my head out of my ass long enough to see it.”

I watch her pace, knowing she needs to just get it out.