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Dean smiles against my lips. “Then I guess I’d better start planning next Saturday.”

The worst part is, I know he means it.

“Right, girls. One more surprise.” Dean reaches into the picnic basket and pulls out two gift boxes.

Aspen’s eyes widen. “Daddy, is it Christmas?”

“No, baby girl.” He hands her one of the boxes. “I just felt like spoiling my girls.”

“Dean, this is already too much,” I tell him.

His eyes meet mine. “No, it isn’t. Let me spoil you.”

Aspen tears into her gift and pulls out a disposable camera.

Her scream of excitement nearly scares every bird away from the lighthouse.

She’s been talking about getting one for weeks, and the second Dean shows her how it works, she starts racing around taking pictures of everything—the ocean, the lighthouse, the picnic and several shots of her own boots.

“Your turn,” Dean says, nodding toward the box in my lap.

I lift the lid and find a key nestled beside a framed photograph of the lighthouse at sunset.

My breath catches.

“Turn it over,” he says quietly.

I flip the frame around. Written across the back in Dean’s handwriting are the words:

To remind you that you are strong—and that you never have to face anything alone.

My eyes immediately fill with tears.

So much for being sick of fucking crying.

“The key is to my house,” Dean explains.

“I gathered that much,” I whisper, looking up at him.

His mouth lifts slightly, but his eyes remain serious. “I want you to have it. I want you to know you can come home whenever you want, whether I’m there or not.”

My throat tightens.

“And,” he adds, “you can stop freezing your ass off while you wait for me to answer the door.”

A tear slips down my cheek as I laugh. “Dean, I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything.”

I lean over and kiss him, holding his face between my hands. “Thank you. I love you.”

“I love you too, Blair.” His forehead settles against mine. “And I’m going to keep showing you.”

A little while later, we’re filled with hot chocolate and pastries, and lying together on the rug, overlooking the ocean.

“I don’t think I will ever get over this view,” I say.

“Me either,” Dean says, but he’s looking at me.