Page 64 of Until You

"You spent your whole life moving," he says. "Sleeping in other people's beds. Living in other people's houses. You told me once that you'd never had a place that was really yours. Something no one could take away."

My throat closes. I remember saying that. A late night on Mimz and Pops' porch, my feet in his lap, his hands on my ankles, when I'd let something slip that I normally kept locked down tight. He'd just listened. He didn't try to fix it. He just held my ankle a little tighter and looked at the stars and I'd thought, stupidly, recklessly, this man hears me.

"No one is taking this away from you," he says. "Not ever. This is yours. Your name is on the deed."

"What?"

"Your name. On the deed. Alongside mine."

I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again.

"You put my name on a deed to a property," I say slowly. "A property with a house and a barn and twenty acres and a creek."

"And a porch swing. Don't forget the porch swing. That was non-negotiable."

A sob-laugh escapes me. It sounds ridiculous—wet and broken and happy, all at once. I press my hand over my mouth and stare at him through tears and he just looks back at me with that steady, certain gaze. The one that says I already decided. I decided a long time ago. And I don't make decisions lightly.

"I want to see inside," I manage.

His face—God, his face. The full smile. The one I spent all those weeks and months earning. It breaks across his features like sunrise over the pasture, crinkling the corners of his eyes, transforming that too-serious jawline into something so warm and real and his that I have to kiss him or I'll die.

So I do.

I grab the front of his shirt and pull him to me and kiss him over the center console of his truck like I did all those months ago, except now I know his name and he knows mine and there's a baby between us who kicks in protest at being squished.

"I love you," I say against his mouth. "I love you so much it makes me stupid."

"Likewise, Mischief."

He helps me out of the truck. My boots hit the gravel and the evening air hits my face—warm and sweet, smelling like cut grass and honeysuckle and the particular golden-hour scent of a Texas evening that I have loved since I was a little girl sleeping in a bedroom that wasn't mine and looking out a window at a sky that was the only thing nobody could keep from me.

Oliver takes my hand and we walk up the drive.

The porch steps are solid beneath my feet. No creaking. The boards are new but painted to look old, a soft grey that complements the white. The porch swing sways slightly in the breeze.

He opens the red door.

I step inside.

And I know immediately—the way you know something in your bones before your brain catches up—that this is it. This is the place I'm going to bring my baby home to. This is the place where I'm going to learn how to stay.

The entryway opens into a wide living room with hardwood floors the color of honey. There's a stone fireplace on the far wall, and the windows are tall and wide and the light pours in. Through an archway, I can see the kitchen—white cabinets, butcher-block counters, the big island he mentioned, and that window over the sink facing east. I can already picture it: morning light, coffee, the baby in a highchair, Oliver coming in from outside smelling like hay and kissing the top of my head before pouring his own cup.

The vision is so vivid it nearly knocks me off my feet.

I press my hand to my belly. The baby shifts, settles, like they know.

"The nursery is upstairs," Oliver says from behind me. "Second door on the right. It faces south—gets the best light."

I turn to look at him. He's leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching me the way he watched me across that bar. Like I'm worth the patience. Like he's got all the time in the world.

"You already picked out the nursery," I say.

"I already painted it."

"You painted it?"

"Soft yellow. Mimz said it was gender-neutral and 'warm like sunshine.'"