Page 85 of At First Flight
We sit beneath a shady oak watching our small world unfurl. The kids chase chickens. Rowan cracks bad jokes. It’s messy, chaotic, sun-warmed bliss.
As the sun dips, the kids collapse on blankets. The days fun drifting away with the sunlight. Oliver snores from his king’s bed on the corner of the blanket and Evelyn sucks her thumb, curled into my side.
Dean watches us, eyes soft, smile slow and Rowan takes that as his queue to do his final barn check for the night. Leaving us.
"You fit here," he says simply.
I meet his gaze. "So do you."
He shifts closer, his hand settling on the small of my back. We don’t need a label, not yet. We need space to keep choosing this, again and again.
He presses a kiss to my temple. My breath catches, and something inside me finally exhales.
The following morning, I surprise the kids with a clear terrarium box holding a butterfly chrysalis I’d picked up from the wildlife center in town. It’s tucked safely in the corner, secured with a small twig and a mesh cover.
Evelyn gasps like I’ve handed her a unicorn. Oliver, ever the investigator, immediately asks a dozen questions.
We set it on the kitchen windowsill, just where the morning sun hits.
“It’s a painted lady butterfly,” I explain. “If we take care of this one and she turns into a butterfly, then I can see about fostering another one after.”
Oliver nods solemnly like I’ve entrusted him with sacred knowledge.
Evelyn cups her hands around the side, eyes wide. “I’m gonna name her Maple.”
Dean kisses the top of my head as he passes behind me, coffee in hand. “You’ve officially raised the bar. How do I top a magical butterfly transformation?”
I smile. “You keep making pancakes.”
We all gather around the windowsill at least a dozen times that day. The kids argue over who spotted it twitch first. Evelyn sings to it. Oliver draws pictures of it with superhero wings in crayon. And I stand behind them, heart so full it aches.
Because love doesn’t always come in fireworks or declarations. Sometimes it comes in pancakes, and caterpillars, and quiet, steady mornings where no one has to earn their place.
And for the first time, I don’t just feel like I belong.
I believe it.
Chapter Eighteen – Dean
I don’t know why I’m nervous.
I’ve closed billion-dollar deals with one signature. I've taken private calls from world leaders and argued policy with people whose names sit heavy in Forbes. But none of that compares to standing outside Lila’s bedroom door, palms slightly damp, trying not to look like a man on the edge of losing it over a woman in a dress.
Because tonight… tonight is different.
Tonight, I’m taking her out. Not as a nanny, not as the woman who tucks my niece and nephew into bed, or the one who leaves her laptop open at the kitchen table with notes scribbled on napkins. But as mine. A date. A real one.
I knock once, then again. The door opens, and my heart forgets how to function.
She’s wearing this soft pink dress that flares out just enough at the hem to be feminine and elegant but hugs her waist like it was stitched with her in mind. Her hair is pinned back on one side, curling over her bare shoulder, and those eyes, hell, those eyes, search my face like she’s trying to read my mind.
If she could, she’d know every thought is some version of you’re stunning. I’m done for. And I’m going to mess this up if I say something dumb.
“You clean up well,” she teases, her voice light and maybe a little shy.
“You’re breathtaking,” I say, before I can stop myself.
Her smile falters, just for a second. “Dean.”
