Page 62 of Fated Paths

“I know,” I say, reaching for her hand. “But I don’t want temporary anymore. I don’t want weeks or leases or end dates. I want this—a home. Here. With you.”

She stares at me, eyes wide, lips parting as if she’s about to speak but can’t quite find the words.

“I can already see it,” I go on quietly. “You at the kitchen table, me pretending I know how to fix something while you tell me I’m doing it wrong.”

Her laugh comes out shaky, caught between tears and joy. “You’re serious.”

“Completely,” I say.

She studies me, still half-suspicious. I grin. “And to prove it, I want to introduce you to someone.”

Before she can ask, I ease her gently off my lap and get to my feet. “Stay there,” I tell her, heading for the door.

She calls after me, laughing. “Aaron, what are you—”

A moment later, I step back inside, cradling something small and wriggling in my arms.

Eve blinks. “Is that—?”

“A beagle,” I confirm, holding the puppy a little closer so she can see his oversized paws and the way his ears are far too big for his head. “Mrs Higgins put me in touch with afriend of a friend in a neighbouring village whose dog had a litter. I might have… accidentally agreed to take one.”

She gasps, one hand flying to her mouth as the puppy sniffs the air, tail wagging like a metronome.

“Aaron!”

“I thought Bernard might need some competition in the village,” I say, settling beside her again. “And I figured you wouldn’t mind the company either.”

The pup gives a determined yip and promptly climbs into her lap, nose burrowing into her jumper. Eve laughs and strokes his soft ears.

“What’s his name?” she asks.

I grin. “Sir Reginald Wigglebottom.”

Her head snaps up, eyes wide with disbelief before she dissolves into laughter. “You’re joking.”

“Absolutely not,” I say solemnly. “He’s dignified. Distinguished. A gentleman among dogs.”

She looks down at the tiny creature currently curled up on her lap. “He’s chewing his own paw.”

“Every great knight has his flaws,” I say, deadpan.

She tries to look unimpressed, but another giggle escapes. “Sir Reginald Wigglebottom,” she repeats, shaking her head. “Bernard’s going to feel terribly outclassed.”

“Exactly,” I say, leaning back with a satisfied smile. “A little healthy rivalry never hurt anyone.”

She rolls her eyes but cuddles the pup closer. “Fine. Sir Reginald it is. Reggie, for short.”

“See? You’re already soft on him.”

“Maybe,” she says, though the affection in her voice gives her away.

I watch them together—her smile, the little bundle of fur dozing in her arms, the sunlight spilling through thewindow—and I realise that this is everything I’d been searching for without even knowing it.

Our new home. Our ridiculous, pompous puppy.

And her. Always her.