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I nod, even though everything in me wants to close the gap and chase the taste of her again. My hand lingers on her neck for one more second before I force it back, respect winning over the fire still burning in my veins. “Okay,” I say quietly, voice hoarse. “Okay. Whatever you need.”

Chapter twenty-two

Blaire

Ipull into Simon’s driveway and kill the engine, but I don’t get out.

The house sits there in the late-afternoon light, bigger than I remembered. Two stories, wide front porch, the kind of place that looks like it should have a swing and a dog and more than one kid tearing across the lawn. The driveway is long enough that my little sedan looks almost lost in it. Theo’s bike is leaning against the garage, training wheels still on even though he goes so fast they barely touch the ground while he rides.

I sit in the silence, hands still on the wheel, and the thought comes uninvited.

The house is big.

Way too big for just Simon and Theo.

I’ve always wondered what made Simon buy such a big house when an apartment would have sufficed. It seemed excessive when he first told me about it. Four bedrooms for a single man who only had his son half the time. A basement. A backyard big enough for a swing set. More space than either of them could possibly need.

The answer rolls over me now because I know exactly why he did it.

I’ve just never let myself think about it.

He probably thought about more kids someday.

My throat gets tight.

Maybe he didn’t know who their mother would be. Maybe he wasn’t consciously picking out rooms for babies who didn’t exist yet, but somewhere in his head, Simon still planned for a family.

A bigger one.

And now I'm about to walk into that house knowing we've agreed to try again.

Knowing that if we don't fuck this up, someday there could actually be more kids running across that lawn.

Our kids.

Jesus Christ.

I press my forehead to the steering wheel for a second, breathing through it. Then I let out a slow breath, reach across to the passenger seat, grab my bag, and step out of the car.

The evening air is cooler than I expected. I sling the strap over my shoulder, shut the car door with my hip, and walk inside what will very soon be my house too.

That thought doesn't help the butterflies.

Simon’s at the stove in a faded black T-shirt and those same gray sweatpants that have been living rent-free in my head for weeks. He’s pulling garlic bread out of the oven while pasta sauce warms on the stove. The muscles in his back shift beneath the cotton as he reaches up to close the cabinet.

I stare for approximately three seconds too long.

Then force my eyes up to his face.

“Hey,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. His smile is small, a little shy, like he’s still amazed that I even agreed to be here. “You’re just in time.”

I force down the butterflies in my throat. “Dinner smells really good.”

He shrugs, plating the pasta. “Don’t sound so shocked.”

“I’m not shocked. I’m just…” I set my bag down. “I kind of assumed you two lived on drive-thru and cereal.”

Simon huffs a laugh, setting the salad bowl on the table. “We used to. Then I got tired of feeling like a shit dad every time I handed him a Happy Meal. Only thing I knew how to cook back then was rice, frozen veggies, and ground turkey for meal prep. Figured I should learn something that didn’t taste like cardboard.”