Page 106 of The Secrets We Built Together

As I turned to leave, she called my name. When I looked back, she was standing in front of her painting, brush in hand, pink hair wild around her face, looking more alive than I'd ever seen her.

"Thank you," she said simply. "For believing in me even when I couldn't."

I swallowed against the sudden tightness in my throat. "Always," I promised. And I meant it with everything in me.

I had just finished making coffee when I heard Amelia stirring through the baby monitor. I hurried to her room, not wanting her cries to interrupt Blake's work. When I pushed open the door, she was already sitting up in her crib, rubbing her eyes with tiny fists.

"Good morning, little bug," I whispered, lifting her into my arms. She immediately nestled against my chest, her sleep-warm body trusting and soft. "Mama's busy making something beautiful. Want to help me make breakfast?"

Amelia babbled something that sounded like agreement, patting my cheek with a drool covered hand. I changed her diaper and dressed her in the little overalls that Blake had bought her last week, complete with tiny ladybugs embroidered on the pockets.

In the kitchen, I settled her into her high chair with some cheerios while I started on breakfast. The domesticity of the moment struck me as both strange and perfect—how quickly this had become my normal, my everything.

Blake emerged from her studio just as I was plating eggs and toast, her hair even wilder than before, a streak of red paint across her forehead. Her eyes were bright with that same creative fire, but softer now, more contained.

"Something smells amazing," she said, crossing to drop a kiss on top of Amelia's head. The baby squealed in delight, reaching up with sticky fingers to grab at Blake's hair.

"Just eggs and toast," I said. "Nothing fancy."

Blake slid onto a stool at the counter, accepting the coffee I pushed toward her. "No, I mean it smells like home." She took a sip, closing her eyes in appreciation. "I never thought I'd be thekind of person who wanted this—the whole domestic package. I always thought I'd be this nomadic artist, living out of a backpack, too free-spirited for roots."

"And now?" I asked, sliding a plate in front of her.

She looked around the kitchen—at Amelia happily mashing cheerios, at the well-worn couch where we curled up every evening, at the fridge covered in shopping lists and doctor appointments and the sonogram picture from Delaney's latest checkup.

"Now I can't imagine wanting anything else," she admitted. "Well, except maybe a slightly bigger studio."

I laughed, leaning across the counter to kiss her. "I think that can be arranged."

As we ate breakfast, Blake told me about all the ideas flooding her mind—the series she wanted to create for the show, the techniques she was excited to try again. Her hands moved animatedly as she spoke, occasionally gesturing with her fork, a piece of egg dangerously close to flying across the room.

"I'm going to need to work like a maniac to get enough pieces done in time," she said, finally pausing to take a breath. "And I'll have to talk to the gallery, make sure they're still willing to give me the space."

"They'd be crazy not to," I said. "And as for working... we'll figure it out. I can take more time with Amelia, maybe see if Delaney or Reece would be willing to help out a few hours a week."

Blake's expression softened. "You'd do that? Rearrange your schedule for this?"

"In a heartbeat," I said without hesitation. "This is important, Blake. Your art is part of who you are. And seeing you like this—" I gestured to her animated face, the light in her eyes, "—it's everything."

She reached across the table and took my hand, squeezing it tightly. "I don't know what I did to deserve you, Xander Farrington."

"You existed," I said simply. "That was more than enough."

Later, after we'd cleaned up breakfast and gotten Amelia dressed for the day, Blake insisted on taking us into her studio to show us what she'd been working on. She held Amelia on her hip, pointing out different elements of the painting, explaining her choices in colors and composition like the baby could understand every word.

"See, that's you with your favorite stuffed bunny," she said, pointing to the canvas. "And there's Daddy, looking at us like we hung the moon."

I grinned at the word 'Daddy,' feeling it reverberate through my entire body. Blake seemed to realize what she'd said at the same moment, her eyes darting to mine, uncertain.

"Is that okay?" she asked quietly. "I mean, I know we haven't really talked about it."

"It's perfect," I said, my voice rough with emotion. "I've never wanted anything more in my life than to be her dad. And your—" I caught myself, suddenly unsure if this was the right moment for everything I wanted to say.

Blake's expression turned tender. "My what?"

I cupped her cheek in my hand, my thumb brushing over the dried paint still streaked there. "Your partner. In all of this. In everything."

She leaned into my touch, her eyes shining. "I like the sound of that."

---