Page 187

I don’t know what comes next.

I don’t know if it’ll be easy.

But for the first time, I’m not afraid.

I have room in my heart for all of it.

The old loves.

The new ones.

The family I chose.

And the family I’m choosing to love again.

One imperfect, beautiful day at a time.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

FLETCH

The truck rumbles to a stop outside the house, and the second I kill the engine, the silence hits me like a cymbal crash mid-ballad. Sharp. Jarring. Full of anticipation.

“Okay, boys,” I mutter, turning to the backseat where two tiny faces greet me from matching car seats, snug in their fleece-lined onesies. “This is it. Big moment. I need you to be cool. Chill. Don’t throw up, don’t scream, and if you could just—y’know—not poop your pants for the next twenty minutes, I’d really appreciate it.”

Kingston blinks, half-asleep. Kody sneezes in his sleep.

I chuckle, nerves buzzing through my bloodstream like a rogue amp plugged into the wrong socket. “I’m gonna take that as agreement.”

The house is quiet now that the crew’s gone. The front porch light glows like a beacon, soft and warm against the deepening evening. There’s still sawdust clinging to the entryway, but it smells like fresh paint and promise. The place is almost ready—four weeks, maybe less—and every room echoes with the future I didn’t see coming but wouldn’t trade for anything.

My future with her.

With them.

I shift both car seats into the foyer, careful not to wake the twins, and triple-check that the little velvet box is still tucked inside my jacket pocket. Still there. Still heavy. Like a promise waiting to become a vow.

The house is all her favorite shades—warm creams, soft sage, exposed brick and bleached wood—and even though we haven’t moved in yet, it already feels like home. Because home? Home isn’t where you live.

It’s who you live for.

The text I sent her a few minutes ago buzzes “delivered” on my phone. Meet me at the house.

No other context. No pressure.

Just… us.

I breathe through the storm that’s building in my chest. This isn’t stage fright. It’s not the pre-show jitters before a sold-out arena or the crackle of adrenaline before a festival drop.

It’s bigger.

It’s real.

The band’s been busy—Carson and Benji are flying all over the damn country scouting talent, and so far they’ve already signed two up-and-coming acts. Alex is officially on board in a partner capacity, and Penelope’s stepped up so hard we had to give her a title. She’s basically the glue holding our creative chaos together.

And me?

I’ve been here. With the boys. With the blueprints. With a ring burning a hole in my back pocket for weeks.