"Yes," I confirmed, rising to leave. "But now you know the news we planned to share."
"I'll act appropriately surprised," he promised with a conspiratorial smile I couldn't remember ever seeing on his face. "Some things are worth experiencing twice."
As I drove back to the penthouse, back to Savannah and the life we were building together, I found myself turning my father's words over in my mind. Not his advice on fatherhood—though that held wisdom I hadn't expected—but his observation about me. About the man I was becoming.
The man who could love Savannah for who she was rather than what she represented. The man who could approach fatherhood with awareness rather than assumption.
A better man.
When I arrived home, I found Savannah exactly where I'd expected—in the room that would become our nursery, surrounded by color swatches and fabric samples, her laptop open to a design website. She looked up as I entered, her smile warming me from the inside out.
"How was your father?" she asked, setting aside a sample book.
I crossed to her, kneeling beside her on the floor, one hand automatically finding its way to her stomach in the gesture thathad become as natural as breathing. "Surprising," I admitted. "I told him about the baby."
Her eyebrows rose. "I thought we were doing that together. Tonight."
"I needed to speak with him first. Father to father." I covered her hand with mine, where it rested on a swatch of soft green fabric.
"I needed to understand how he sees fatherhood now, with the perspective of decades, before bringing you into the conversation."
Understanding dawned in her expression. "And what did you learn?"
"That he regrets much of how he raised me," I said simply. "That he recognizes the cost of choosing control many times over connection. That he believes I can do better than he did."
She studied my face, reading beneath the words to the emotions I was still learning to express. "And do you believe that?"
"With you? Yes." I lifted her hand to my lips, pressing a kiss to her palm—a gesture of reverence that would have seemed foreign to me months ago. "You won't let me retreat into control when connection is needed. Won't let me demand perfection instead of offering acceptance."
"Damn right I won't," she agreed, the fierceness in her tone making me smile. Then, gentler. "What else did he say?"
"That this child will teach me more about myself than decades of business success ever could." I spread my hand across her still-flat abdomen, feeling connection rather than possession in the gesture now. "And I believe he's right."
She covered my hand with hers, the simple contact grounding me in this moment, in this room that would soon hold the physical manifestation of what we'd created together.
"I want to show you something," I said, standing and offering her my hand. "It's not finished, but I think you should see it now."
Curiosity brightened her expression as she allowed me to help her up. "The nursery plans? I've already seen those."
"Not the plans," I said, leading her to the far wall where a drop cloth covered what appeared to be a large framed item.
"This."
I removed the cloth to reveal a mural in progress—hand-painted in soft colors that complemented the palette we'd selected for the room. Not the professional artwork I'd initially planned to commission, but something I'd begun creating myself in the quiet hours when sleep eluded me and I found myself drawn to this space, to this future.
A world map formed the background, continents rendered in soft greens and blues, but superimposed upon it were elements unique to our shared history.
A vineyard in California where we'd first met.
The San Francisco skyline, where we'd built our life together.
The small town in Maine where Savannah had grown up. The European cities I'd studied in during college.
Around these landmarks, I began adding smaller, more personal touches—books that’d shaped us, places we hoped to visit, and symbols of experiences we'd shared. And in the center, still sketched rather than painted, a tree with branches spreading wide, ready to hold the names and dates and milestones of our growing family.
"Lucas," she whispered, her hand rising to cover her mouth. "You did this?"
"I'm trying," I said, watching her face as she took in the details, the personal touches, the hours of effort this represented. "It's not perfect. The perspective is somewhatflawed in the European section, and the color balance needs adjustment in?—"
