Page 123 of At First Flight
“I’ll screw up, too,” she whispers. “I’ll forget to set timers. I’ll hog the covers. I’ll be late picking up Oliver from soccer because I get caught up looking at butterfly migration patterns or new studies on food allergies.”
“I can live with that.”
She kisses me again, soft and slow. “Then maybe we’ll be okay.”
“We’ll be more than okay.”
We lie there in silence, the kind that feels earned, not empty. Her fingers trace lazy circles on my chest. My arm is tight around her—like if I let go, she might vanish again.
But she doesn’t. She’s here. And now, so am I.
The sun’s almost up by the time I finally close my eyes.
Lila’s curled into my side, her hair fanned across my chest, one leg slung over mine like she never left. And even with the ache in my muscles and the adrenaline still humming through my veins, I can’t bring myself to move. Not yet.
Because this moment is one I thought I’d never get again. She came back. She chose us. And I’m not sure I’ll ever stop being stunned by that.
I run a hand slowly down her back, tracing the curve of her spine, memorizing every inch of her like it’s the first time.
I think about the first morning she was here, stumbling into my kitchen barefoot and guarded, trying to pretend she wasn’t just barely holding herself together. And now?
Now, she’s folded against me like she belongs here. I press a kiss to the top of her head and let myself fall asleep.
When I wake again, it’s to the sound of footsteps pounding down the hallway and the distinct crash of something ceramic shattering in the kitchen.
I sit up fast, heart racing, only to find Lila groaning beside me. She stretches, blinking against the light pouring through the windows, and mumbles, “If that’s the coffee pot again, I’m gonna cry.”
We stumble out of bed together like two hungover teenagers, limbs tangled in sheets and grins. In the kitchen, Oliver stands next to the counter, barefoot and wide-eyed, a bowl in shards at his feet.
“I was trying to make cereal for Evelyn,” he says, already defensive. “You didn’t wake up.”
I glance at Lila. She steps forward, crouches down beside him, and smiles. “Next time, wake us up, bud. You don’t have to do it all yourself.”
He nods, still a little embarrassed. Lila brushes his hair back and kisses the top of his head. It’s such a natural, instinctive gesture that it does something dangerous to my chest. Something permanent.
After Lila checks him over for any cuts, I grab the broom and clean up the mess while she pours cereal into two new bowls.
By late morning, the house has returned to its usual rhythm of sweet chaos. Lila folds the never-ending laundry onthe couch, Evelyn dances around the living room in a tutu over her pajamas, and Oliver constructs something elaborate and clearly unstable with LEGO bricks that keep clicking against the hardwood floor.
I’m standing in the hallway just watching them, arms crossed, trying not to get too ahead of myself. But it’s hard not to. The image in front of me is everything I’ve ever wanted and never thought I could have.
And right at this moment, it’s mine.
“Dean?” Lila’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts.
“Hmm?”
She’s holding up one of my T-shirts. Her eyes meet mine, cautious but warm. “Is it okay if I keep stealing these?”
I walk over, take it from her hands, and pull it over her head right then and there. She laughs as her arms poke through the sleeves, and I kiss her forehead.
“You can have anything that’s mine.”
Her smile falters slightly, just for a second. “Even your last name?”
It’s a joke. I know that. But the way she says it makes something shift inside me. A seed, maybe. One I wouldn’t mind letting grow.
That afternoon, after naps and snacks and a rousing game of “find the missing stuffed dinosaur,” Lila and I sit out on the deck with iced tea and silence. The kids are in the yard, chasing bubbles and giggling like it’s the only job they’ve ever had.
