Page 237 of The Marriage Clause

"Told you that you weren't going anywhere," she says, squeezing my arm. "...and I'm glad I was right."

"Me too."

Across the hall, Everett is talking quietly to Christian, head bent, face more relaxed than I've seen in months. Something about the way he holds himself now—less rigid. Less like a man who thinks the ceiling is his responsibility.

He glances over and finds me watching him.

And the look that passes between us feels so private I almost blush standing in the middle of his entire family.

That night, the estate is quiet—just us two.

Just Everett's bedroom, dark except for the soft pool of light from the reading lamp, and the two of us tangled beneath the covers after one of the longest days of my life.

I'm curled against his side in one of his T-shirts, my cheek on his chest, one leg thrown over his.

His fingers move lazily through my hair.

"What now?" I ask softly.

"Well," he says, voice rough with tiredness, "tomorrow Christian will call six times, Levi will show up without warning, Everly will pretend she isn't already redesigning at least three rooms for the baby, and Zayne will say something inappropriate in a family group text."

I smile against his chest.

"That sounds like heaven."

He hums.

"Then," he says, "we figure out what comes next. Together this time."

I try not to read too much into those last two words. But my chest does something stupid anyway.

I tilt my head up to look at him.

"Like what?"

"Like working to help your father get well enough to come live with us," he says. "Not because he has to but because there's room."

My throat tightens.

"And your painting doesn't become the thing you almost did before life got in the way." His fingers brush the back of my neck. "It stays central. Not squeezed in around everyone else's emergencies."

"You want me to keep painting?"

"I didn't fall in love with a woman who puts her talent in a drawer."

A laugh escapes me. "Since when are you this smooth?"

"Don't get used to it. I'll be impossible again by Thursday."

I prop myself up on one elbow. "And what about you?"

He takes a deep inhale and then lets it out.

"I don't want to do this at the pace I was doing it anymore," he says finally. "I love what I do… Don't get me wrong. I just don't want our child knowing the back of my phone better than my face." His mouth tightens for half a second. "I don't want to miss everything real because I'm too busy carrying things I don't need to anymore."

"What does slowing down look like for you?" I ask.

He lets out a breath.