Page 10 of Unwrapped

Levi is on his truck tailgate at the edge of the bay, Amelia asleep against his chest. She’s not quite one, her cheek pressed to his shoulder, one hand curled around the collar of his flannel. His palm covers her entire back. Iris is beside them, leaning into his other shoulder, sketchbook open. She’s drawing the whole scene—the bay, the engines, the families, the late-summer light. I catch a glimpse of the page and see myself in charcoal. Holding Logan, caramel tray balanced on one hip. She’s been drawing me for years, but the early portraits were Millie laughing, Millie bright. This one is different. This one is Millie at rest. The gallery still has two permanent walls—his carvings east, her portraits west. Neither is for sale.

And then I find Weston.

He’s across the bay talking to Holt, and Hudson is on his shoulders, three years old, gripping fistfuls of his father’s dark hair. Weston is laughing—the kind of laugh that didn’t exist five years ago, when he was the quiet one nobody noticed, walking through a courtyard full of love stories that weren’t his.

Five years on the wildland team. Five years of deployments, fire seasons, weeks in the backcountry. Five years of coming home.

He catches me looking and crosses the bay. He takes a caramel off the tray—the same gesture, every time. The small yes that replaced the first no, the night he walked through smoke into my shop and refused to take what I offered because he wanted something realer than sugar.

“You’re almost out,” he says, nodding at the tray.

“I’ve been saying that for an hour. Mack keeps circling back.”

“Mack’s had six.”

“Seven. He keeps walking past with Scarlett on his shoulders and grabbing one while she covers his eyes.” I shift Logan on my hip. “Your son needs a diaper change.”

“He’s your son when he needs a diaper change.”

“He’s my son when he’s charming. He’s yours when he smells.”

Weston grins. That grin still catches me off guard because it took a year of loving him before I saw it without having to earn it first. He takes Logan from my hip, settles him against his chest, leans down, and presses his mouth to my temple.

“Best caramel you’ve ever made,” he says.

Same thing he says every time. Same answer every time.

“You say that about every batch.”

“Every batch is your best one.” His free hand finds the back of my neck. Warm. Steady. Present.

The bay is full of noise—kids, laughter, Mack’s voice carrying over everything. Two engines in the same house, two crews and their families. Seven couples who found each other in old stone buildings and a firehouse on Prospect Street.

I used to watch this from the outside. I used to hand out free samples and cheer for everyone else and wonder what was wrong with me that nobody ever stopped.

Someone stopped. Someone looked. And he’s standing beside me with caramel on his fingers and our son against his chest, and I’m not the last one standing.

I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.