I believed her.
Then I rebuilt the cabin.
For her. For us. For the family that kept growing around me before I knew how to deserve it.
The old one-room place is still here somewhere, under new timber, wider windows, a real kitchen, our bedroom, Theo’s nursery, and a guest room that is never empty because my brothers have no boundaries and Reina keeps feeding them.
There are toys by the fireplace now.
Tiny socks in my laundry.
Her books on shelves I built myself.
My house used to be a place to hide.
Now it is where I come home.
A floorboard creaks behind me.
I turn.
Reina stands in the hallway wearing only my shirt.
Every good thought in my head burns clean away.
Her hair is loose around her shoulders. Her legs are bare. My ring glints on her finger where she rests one hand against the doorframe.
“Is he asleep?” she whispers.
I look back at Theo.
Still out.
“Kid’s finally down.”
“Good.” Her gaze trails over me, from my bare chest to the sweatpants hanging low on my hips. “Because I need his father.”
“You do?”
She smiles. “Always.”
My hand settles at her waist. Her breath catches the second I touch her. Always does. Two years, a wedding ring, a baby, my mouth on every inch of her, and she still gives me that soft little tell.
“You should be sleeping.”
“So should you.”
“I was checking on Theo.”
“You were staring at him like he’s a miracle.”
“He is.”
Her face softens.
“So are you,” I say.
She blinks, and there it is. That shy flush I’ve been chasing since the night she walked out of my shower wrapped in a towel and wrecked me where I stood.