Hundred and Sixty Eight

Hundred and Sixty Eight
The next morning felt… surreal. Unreal, almost. Like I was in a dream. I had dreamed of this, many years ago. Living with Declan, our kid’s room down the hall. Of course, it had been different in my dream, but I wouldn’t change this for the world. 

I woke up in Declan’s bed, sunlight streaming in through the curtains. Noah was thumping down the hallway. It was his noise that had woken me up. It should’ve felt foreign, but instead, it was disarmingly natural.

Declan stretched beside me, his arm tightening around my waist. His voice was still gravelly from sleep when he murmured, “We survived moving day.”

“Barely,” I said into his chest. “Your spreadsheet nearly killed me.”

He chuckled, pressing a lazy kiss into my hair. “Admit it, it worked.”

Before I could answer, Noah burst into the room, bubble-wrap cape still firmly in place. “Good morning, family!” he shouted, launching himself onto the bed.

Declan groaned dramatically as Noah landed on his stomach. I laughed so hard I nearly cried. “Is he always this energetic in the morning?” He asked.

“Always,” I giggled.

By late morning, we were in the kitchen. Declan insisted on cooking breakfast. Noah insisted on ‘helping.’ I insisted on keeping the fire extinguisher within reach.

It went about as well as expected.

Declan cracked eggs one-handed like some kind of show-off chef. Noah tried to mimic him and got more shell than yolk in the pan. Declan scooped it out without a word, just shaking his head.

“You two are ridiculous,” I said, sipping coffee and watching from the counter.

“We’re talented,” Declan corrected.

“Talented at making a mess,” I shot back.

Noah grinned at me, egg on his cheek. “Mommy, you’re the judge. Who’s the better chef? Me or Declan?”

I pretended to think. “Hmm. The one who hasn’t set the stove on fire yet.”

Declan raised a brow. “So neither of us.”

It was ridiculous.. But sitting at the table later with scrambled eggs that were half-edible, I realized I hadn’t felt this good in years.

Around noon, there was a knock at the door.

Declan wiped his hands and went to answer it. On the porch stood a middle-aged couple carrying a basket of muffins.

“Declan! We saw the moving truck yesterday,” the woman said warmly. “We just had to come welcome your new family.”

Declan smiled, that polished, charming smile he was so good at using. But this time, it was softer. Real.

“Thank you, that’s very kind,” he said, taking the basket. “Come in, meet Willow and Noah.”

Noah peeked out from behind me, muffin radar already activated. “Hi,” he said shyly.

“Hi, sweetheart,” the woman said, smiling at him.

Declan’s hand came to rest lightly on the small of my back. “This is Willow,” he said without hesitation. “My fiancée.”

I froze.

The neighbors smiled, cooed, shook my hand. I mumbled something polite, my brain still processing the word that had just come out of Declan’s mouth.

Fiancée.

When the neighbors finally left (after Noah devoured two muffins and tried to sneak a third), I rounded on him in the kitchen. “Fiancée?”

He had the audacity to look smug. “What? Too soon?”

“Declan!” I hissed. “You can’t just…just announce things like that!”

He stepped closer, voice dropping, all teasing gone. “Why not? It’s where we’re heading, isn’t it? You, me, Noah. A family.”

My heart stuttered. “That doesn’t mean -”

“It does to me,” he said firmly.

For a moment, we just stared at each other, the weight of it pressing down. Then Noah came barreling in, muffin crumbs all over his shirt. “Mama, what is fiancee?”

I blinked at him, then at Declan, then back at him. “Uh, baby…”

Declan crouched down to Noah’s level. “It means I love your Mommy. And one day, I’m going to marry her. But only if she wants that too.”

Noah’s eyes widened, then he grinned. “Good. I wanna go to Mommy’s wedding.” He cheered, jumping up, “I’m gonna go to my Mommy’s wedding!”

Declan looked up at me, a challenge in his eyes, softened by something so raw it made my chest ache.

I didn’t answer. Not yet. But my silence wasn’t rejection. Anyway, we both knew, it was obviously a yes.

That afternoon, we unpacked more boxes. Declan tried to put my books in alphabetical order. I smacked his arm. “They go by vibe, not alphabet.”

He stared at me like I’d grown another head. “By vibe?”

“Yes. Like, ‘cozy autumn’ goes with Jane Austen, and ‘existential dread’ goes with Dostoevsky.”

He dropped his face into his hands. “You’re going to kill me.”

“You love it,” I teased.

“I love you,” he admitted without hesitation. “Definitely not loving this.” 

“Well, you’ll put up with it.”

Later, Noah insisted on a blanket fort. Declan helped him drape sheets over chairs, and I crawled in with them. We ended up squished together, the three of us in a ridiculous fabric fort, reading by flashlight.

At one point, Noah leaned his head against Declan’s shoulder and sighed, “This is the best family ever.”

Declan’s eyes met mine over Noah’s head. His hand found mine under the blanket, fingers lacing gently through.

It really was.