“As slow as you need,” he promises, pulling me into his arms. “We’ve got all the time in the world now.”
I lean into him, breathing in his familiar scent, letting myself believe that maybe we really do have all the time in the world. That maybe this is what safety feels like. What home feels like.
Outside, a car drives past, and I don’t flinch. Don’t check the locks or listen for footsteps on the porch. Don’t calculate escape routes or worry about tomorrow’s potential dangers.
Because I’m home. We’re home. And for the first time in my adult life, nobody can take that away from us.
The freedom of that realization is so overwhelming I start crying again—not from fear or anxiety, but from relief so profound it feels like rebirth.
“Hey,” Dex says softly, his thumbs wiping away my tears. “What’s this about?”
“I just realized,” I say through the tears, “that I can make plans without permission. I can decide what’s for dinner without worrying if it’s going to start a fight. I can let the kids be loud and messy and themselves without calculating the consequences.”
“Yeah,” he says, understanding lighting his eyes. “You can.”
“We can have pancakes for dinner if we want to.”
“Absolutely.”
“And watch movies past bedtime on weekends.”
“Highly recommended.”
“And...” I trail off, the words I was about to say dying on my lips.
And have more children, eventually, if we want to.
The thought hits me completely unexpectedly. For three years, I’ve been so focused on protecting the children I have that I never allowed myself to think about... more. About what I might want in a different life, with a different man.
With this man.
“Goldie?” Dex’s voice is gentle, concerned. “What is it?”
I step back slightly, suddenly needing space to breathe. “There’s something we need to talk about. Something I should have brought up before now, but...”
“Okay.” He’s immediately alert, reading the shift in my mood. “What’s wrong?”
“Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.” I lean against the counter, trying to find the words. “Dex, do you want children? Biological children, I mean. Your own kids?”
The question hangs between us like a landmine we’ve both been carefully stepping around without realizing it.
He pauses, and I can see him thinking, weighing his response. “Yes,” he says finally. “I do. I’ve always assumed I would, someday.”
My stomach drops. “And is that... would not having them be a dealbreaker for you?”
“I don’t know,” he admits, running a hand through his hair. “A year ago, I would have said yes. Kids were always part of the plan, you know? The whole suburban house, white picket fence, couple of kids running around the yard.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m in love with a woman who has two amazing kids who already feel like mine. So maybe the plan changes.” He studies my face carefully. “What about you? Do you want more children?”
The question I’ve been dreading. “I thought I was done,” I say slowly. “For years, I was absolutely certain I was done. The idea of being pregnant again, of being that vulnerable, of having another person depending on me when I could barely keep myself and Tyson and Blythe safe...”
“That makes sense.”
“But now...” I take a shaky breath. “Now, for the first time in years, I’m safe. Really safe. And I keep thinking about what our life could look like, and sometimes I imagine... more.”
Hope flickers in his eyes, quickly tampered down. “More like how?”
