Location: Crescent Green, tucked under the shade trees near the lemonade stand
Time: Open all day, busiest from 10:00AM–2:00PM
Hosted by: Evergreen Daycare Co-op + Town Library

A shaded patch of lawn has been turned into toddler heaven. There’s a soft foam mat on the grass, bins of board books and plush toys, and a fenced-in sand table shaped like a star. Oversized building blocks scatter one corner while bubble wands fill the air with shimmering pops that cause joyful chaos.

Teen volunteers from the high school Early Ed program help supervise, blowing bubbles and handing out snacks shaped like little American flags. There’s even a tiny red-white-and-blue sprinkler arch set up for splash time — just enough to cool down little feet without drenching their outfits.

Nearby, a soft-voiced librarian reads from a pile of picture books under a striped umbrella. Parents drink iced tea from the sidelines and swap stories about teething, tantrums, and how nobody slept last night.

Michaela stood at the edge of the green, one hand curled around a paper cup, the other braced on her hip. She didn’t say much. Didn’t need to. Sometimes quiet was the only thing that made sense.

Evie stood beside her. No tension, no distance—just presence. It hadn’t always been like that.

Across the grass, Wyatt was playing chase with Arlo, his steps clumsy and overdramatic, like he thought flailing would make him faster. Arlo was giggling like mad, weaving in and out of his dad’s reach. Hanna dashed alongside them, faster than both, until Jeremy swept in and caught her from behind—lifting her in a blur of laughter and limbs, like she was something he never wanted to let go.

Michaela watched them—her husband and the girl who’d become their entire world. Their foster daughter. Their almost-official, almost-final, almost-forever daughter.

Hanna was theirs in every way that counted.

And soon, on paper too.

For a long time, Michaela had tried not to look too closely at Evie. It was easier that way. Easier to pretend she didn’t notice the way Wyatt softened around her. The way Arlo’s curls looked just like his. Easier to be sharp than to admit how badly it hurt.

But none of that had ever been Evie’s fault.

She knew people had told her that. Explained it. Probably tried to make peace where Michaela had left silence. But Michaela had never said it. Not out loud. Not from her.

She shifted slightly, fingers tightening on her cup.

“I used to hate you a little,” she said quietly, still watching the field. “Not because of anything you did. Just… because I didn’t know where to put the hurt.”

Her voice wasn’t bitter. Just tired. Honest.

“It wasn’t your fault. None of it.”

A pause.

“I know they’ve explained that to you. Maybe more than once. But I wanted to say it myself.”

The wind picked up, brushing through her hair like a reminder.

“She’s almost ours. Hanna. Just a few more weeks and it’s done.”

Jeremy looked over right then, Hanna still in his arms, and flashed that stupid, open smile that made her want to cry and laugh at the same time. Michaela blinked hard and took a slow breath.

“You’re family now,” she added, almost like it surprised her to say it out loud. “And I’m sorry it took me this long to get there.”

Another beat. Then:

“You don’t have to do this alone. Not with Arlo. Not with any of it.”

That was it.

No performance. No dramatics.

Just a truth she needed Evie to hear—from her, and no one else.

Michaela looked over then—really looked—and her eyes found Evie’s.

There was no tension in the glance, no sharpness. Just a small, tired smile. A peace offering wrapped in something quiet and real. She didn’t wait for a response. Didn’t need one. Some things didn’t have to be said twice.

She turned and walked toward the field.

Jeremy was crouched low now, pretending to be winded while Hanna danced in circles around him, her laugh echoing over the grass. Arlo had abandoned the game altogether, lying spread-eagle in the clover and yelling about being “defeated.” Wyatt just shook his head and collapsed beside him like the world’s most dramatic uncle.

Michaela’s steps slowed when she reached them. Jeremy looked up first, his expression softening the second he saw her. Hanna turned next—and in a flash, her face lit up.

“Mama!”

Michaela bent low, arms open just in time for Hanna to collide into her—all speed and sticky hands and tangled giggles. Her little body was warm from the sun, damp with sweat, clinging like she hadn’t seen Michaela in days instead of minutes.

She didn’t say anything. Just pressed her face against Michaela’s neck with a muffled hum and a hiccup-laugh, breath catching from all the running. One small fist clutched the hem of Michaela’s dress like she wasn’t ready to let go yet.

Michaela held her close.

For a second, the world just… stilled.

She could feel Hanna’s heart thudding like a hummingbird against her ribs, the way small children live at full volume even in their quiet. Michaela swayed with her instinctively, like muscle memory. Like this was always where they’d end up.

When she finally loosened her hold, Hanna dropped to the grass again—knees first, careless and free—and started picking at a dandelion like it had wronged her personally. Her curls were plastered to her forehead, her dress slightly damp at the collar, one sock half-off. Michaela smiled faintly. Perfect, just like this.

Jeremy’s hand brushed the small of her back—steady and wordless.

She didn’t look at him right away. Just stood there, letting the moment soak in. Letting herself believe it.

Almost theirs.

Almost permanent.

The first time Hanna had called her mama, it hadn’t even been deliberate. Barely a whisper. Just a sleepy murmur from the backseat one morning, eyes half-closed as she reached for a toy she couldn’t find. Not dramatic. Not a breakthrough.

But Michaela had pulled the car over and cried anyway.

Because in that small, sleepy breath, something had shifted. A title she’d mourned. A role she’d thought would never belong to her. And suddenly—there it was. Tucked into the tiniest moment like it had always been meant for her.

She hadn’t told anyone about that morning. Not even Jeremy. It was hers.

And now—watching her daughter roll in the grass, her husband standing close enough to lean on, her brother and nephew collapsed in the clover like happy chaos—it all felt real. Not borrowed. Not temporary.

Real.

Hanna glanced back toward her, cheeks flushed, one tiny fist in the air holding a crumpled flower like it was treasure. Michaela gave a small wave, chest aching in that full, impossible way only love could cause.

She let out a slow breath.

They were close. So close.

And for the first time in a long, long while—Michaela let herself believe they’d get there.

Wyatt caught the tail end of it—Michaela’s arms around Hanna, Jeremy’s quiet hand on her back, the soft stillness that settled like mist after a long storm. He couldn’t hear the words from where he sat in the grass, but he didn’t need to. He felt it.

Something had shifted.

He glanced over his shoulder, searching instinctively—and sure enough, there she was.

Evie.

Still standing at the edge of the field, one hand tucked into the pocket of her jacket, the other curled slightly at her side like she hadn’t decided whether to wave or anchor herself. Her face was unreadable in the way only hers could be—all calm on the outside, while something deep flickered just beneath the surface.

He knew that look. Had learned to read it the hard way.

She’d just been handed something sacred. And she didn’t know what to do with it yet.

Wyatt turned back to Arlo, who was now making grass angels in the clover and shouting about bugs. He reached over, ruffled his son’s curls, and then stood up slowly, brushing bits of green off his jeans.

His eyes drifted back to Evie.

She was still watching. Not frozen—but holding still, like the world was a little louder than usual and she needed a second to breathe through it.

He jogged halfway across the grass, then slowed as he reached her. Didn’t say anything right away—just let his fingers brush her sleeve gently. She looked at him then, eyes glossy but quiet, and God, it hit him harder than he expected.

Not because she was upset. But because she wasn’t.

She looked… still. In a way she hadn’t in months.

“I saw her talk to you,” he said, voice low, just for her. “Michaela.”

Evie nodded, barely. Didn’t look away.

Wyatt studied her for another beat before reaching down and lacing their fingers together. Not tight. Not a pull. Just presence. Just his version of I see you.

“She meant it, you know,” he added. “She wouldn’t have said it if she didn’t.”

Evie didn’t answer right away, but she didn’t let go.

So he didn’t, either.

Behind them, Arlo called out again—something about needing help catching a “wobbly butterfly,” which Wyatt was pretty sure was just a leaf—but he didn’t move just yet.

He looked at Evie, really looked, and said it softly:

“You don’t have to stand on the edge anymore. You’re in it now. With us.”

A pause. Then, with a smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth—

“Even if it took my sister a year and half a bottle of wine to catch up.”

That earned him a quiet laugh. Her eyes rolled, but her shoulders dropped just enough for him to feel it: the weight easing.

He gave her hand the smallest squeeze.

“Come on,” he said, nodding toward the field. “Let’s go be chaos with them.”

And this time—when he turned toward the grass, she followed.

They crossed the grass together, hand in hand, the late afternoon light catching on the gold in her hair and the red in Arlo’s. Their son was already ahead, having abandoned his brief career as a butterfly wrangler in favor of launching himself onto Hanna’s dandelion pile like a tiny, syrup-scented missile.

Jeremy caught him mid-somersault, laughing.

“Chaos,” Wyatt muttered with a grin, dropping down into the grass beside his sister. “Exactly as promised.”

Evie snorted as she eased down beside him, tucking her legs to the side and letting her weight lean subtly into his. Not all at once. But enough. The kind of lean that says I trust this. I trust you.

Wyatt soaked it in.

Across from them, Hanna tried to stack dandelions into Arlo’s curls while blabbering her process like a TED Talk. Jeremy tossed a ball lazily in the air and caught it one-handed, content. Michaela—so often sharp-edged and tired—looked soft now. Settled. Her arm rested casually against Evie’s ankle in that accidental-familiar way that only happened when something had healed without anyone naming it.

Wyatt let the moment stretch. Let the sun warm his face, let Arlo’s tiny frame sprawl messily across his chest like a declaration. His son smelled like grass and syrup and sunscreen—summer incarnate—and Wyatt could’ve stayed like that forever.

But his gaze drifted. And found her.

Evie sat cross-legged now, fingers combing clover out of Arlo’s curls, quiet but here. Here. That word hit him square in the chest.

He watched her for a second, studying the shape of her quiet.

Then:

“You know,” he said softly, like the words had been waiting, “I used to think happy looked like… louder than this.”

Evie glanced at him, brows raised, curious.

“Like… bigger,” he added, letting his head drop back against the grass. “Trips. Paychecks. Milestones. All the stuff you’re supposed to aim for.”

His hand rested absently against Arlo’s back, grounding.

“But I was wrong,” Wyatt murmured. “It’s this. It’s grass stains and waffle crumbs and you showing up in that jacket you swear you’re gonna retire.”

Evie huffed a laugh, looking down at her sleeve like it betrayed her. But she didn’t interrupt.

Wyatt turned his head, met her eyes fully now.

“I spent so long trying to fix everything that I forgot what it feels like when something just works.”

A beat.

“You. Him. This weird, messy, holy thing we’re building—I don’t want to miss it.”

Arlo giggled suddenly, wriggling like he’d caught on to the emotion in the air and wanted none of it. He crawled toward Evie, flopping into her lap with a squawk.

Wyatt laughed too. Easy, real.

And then, voice low, just for her:

“I know I don’t always say it right. Or at the right time. But I’m here. For all of it.”

He reached out, brushing his fingers against her knee—gentle, unhurried.

“Even the sticky parts.”

Evie didn’t answer right away. But her fingers wrapped around his.

And that was enough.

He felt her before he saw her—Michaela. The way her footsteps shifted the air, the way Hanna’s whole body lit up like a match the second she got close. Jeremy didn’t even have to look. He just knew.

Still, when he did, the sight of her stole his breath in that quiet, familiar way it always had.

Her eyes looked different.

Not tired. Not guarded. Just… open.

And when she bent down and Hanna hurled herself into her arms like a heat-seeking missile, Jeremy let himself believe it wasn’t fleeting. That this—this moment, this weightless kind of joy—was something they could actually keep.

He watched them, letting the quiet stretch. Hanna’s curls stuck to Michaela’s neck, little hands tangled in her dress, a dandelion stuck to her sock like nature’s approval stamp. Jeremy tucked that image somewhere deep. Somewhere sacred.

Then her arms opened, and Hanna tumbled back into the grass like a dandelion storm survivor with a grudge. Michaela didn’t chase. Just watched with that soft, lopsided smile Jeremy had only seen a handful of times—and never before with both hands empty.

His fingers found the small of her back, instinctively. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t shift away. Just stood still.

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Behind them, Arlo screeched something about becoming a dragon and Evie snorted in response. Wyatt was trying—and failing—to blow a blade of grass like a whistle. Jeremy glanced their way and caught the edge of it: Evie’s shoulders relaxed, Wyatt’s hand against hers, Arlo's head in her lap like a seal pup who'd picked his spot.

Something had cracked open. Softly. Without fanfare.

Jeremy looked back at Michaela.

She wasn’t watching the others. Not yet. Her eyes were on Hanna, who was now vigorously feeding her crumpled dandelion to a ladybug.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

She turned, and his chest ached.

He didn’t ask what had changed. Didn’t need the details.

He could feel it.

Instead, he nodded toward the others, where Wyatt was half-asleep in the clover and Evie was helping Arlo line up tiny flags like a Fourth of July parade.

“You think they’ll ever believe us when we tell them this was the calm version of the day?” he teased.

Michaela huffed a tired laugh, the corner of her mouth pulling just slightly.

Jeremy slid his hand into hers and squeezed once.

“She’s almost ours,” he said—not to test her, but to anchor it. To name the thing they’d barely let themselves believe. “Hanna. Just a few more weeks.”

Michaela nodded, her fingers tightening in his.

“I know you’ve been holding your breath,” he added gently. “Me too.”

He glanced down at Hanna then, who had now transitioned to trying to blow dandelion fluff into Arlo’s hair with the force of a hurricane.

“But we’re here,” Jeremy said. “We made it.”

And just like that—he saw it. The flicker in Michaela’s expression. Not relief, not joy. Something quieter. Something raw.

Trust.

She leaned into his side, just enough to let him hold part of her weight.

He didn’t say anything else.

Didn’t need to.

Because for the first time in years, maybe ever, Michaela wasn’t bracing for the next thing to go wrong.

She was here. With him. With Hanna. With all of it.

And Jeremy knew, with the kind of certainty that came once in a lifetime:

She was home.

She hadn’t expected it.

Not really.

Michaela’s voice in her ear. The truth of it. The apology. The way it settled into her bones like something warm and long overdue.

Evie had stood there for a moment afterward, hands still and heart loud, trying to figure out how to hold it without crushing it. She hadn’t moved—not because she didn’t want to, but because her body hadn’t caught up yet. As if some part of her was still stuck in the before.

Then Wyatt came.

And when his fingers brushed her sleeve—soft and steady, like he knew how to reach her without pushing—something in her exhaled.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. The moment felt too big for words anyway. Too sacred to pick apart with explanations.

He took her hand.

And for the first time all day, she let herself be in it.

In the grass. In the light. In this ridiculous, messy, unexpected version of a life she’d never dared to want.

When he said you don’t have to stand on the edge anymore, it hit her like a wave to the chest. Gentle, but deep. One of those truths she’d maybe always known, but needed someone else to say out loud.

Especially him.

She followed him across the field without hesitation.

Not because she owed him anything.

But because she believed him.

And maybe, finally, she believed herself too.

Now, sitting in the clover, Arlo’s tiny body curled in her lap, she could feel it—how real this was. How warm. How theirs.

Wyatt dropped beside her with a comment about chaos, and she smirked as Arlo tried to launch dandelions into Hanna’s hair like a mission-critical experiment. Michaela didn’t flinch when Evie’s ankle bumped hers. Just let it happen. Let it stay.

Evie breathed in the scent of sunscreen, lemonade, and dirt. Summer, sticky and perfect.

Wyatt’s voice found her again, soft and certain.

He talked about happy. How he used to picture it louder. Bigger. Like it had to be earned through noise and milestones and all the boxes you were supposed to check.

Evie didn’t interrupt. Just listened.

Because she knew exactly what he meant.

She used to think love looked like proving yourself. Like being needed. Like survival.

But this? This was different.

This was showing up with nothing to prove and being enough anyway.

When he said you, him, this weird, messy, holy thing we’re building—I don’t want to miss it, something in her cracked open in the best way.

She didn’t say anything.

Didn’t need to.

Because Wyatt was already reaching out, fingers brushing her knee, voice low and real.

“Even the sticky parts.”

That did it.

She felt her throat go tight, not with sadness, but with the kind of emotion that sneaks up when you realize you’re safe. That you made it through.

Her hand found his.

Warm. Steady.

“I used to think this would never feel normal,” she murmured. Her voice was quieter than usual. Honest. “Like I was just passing through someone else’s good day. Borrowing it.”

Wyatt looked at her then, something gentle sparking behind his grin.

“But today,” she added, eyes flicking out to the field where Arlo and Hanna were now arguing over who got to hold the “fuzzy stick,” “it doesn’t feel borrowed.”

She let her head rest lightly against his shoulder.

“It feels like mine.”

A beat. Then:

“Sticky parts and all.”

Wyatt kissed the top of her head. Nothing dramatic. Just a kiss, pressed into her hair like a promise.

And for the first time since the whole wild, winding road had begun—Evie believed it was real.

Not almost.

Not maybe.

Real.

Michaela flicked the dandelion from her sock and let her fingers settle into Jeremy’s. His touch was warm. Familiar. Steady in the way she used to resent, before she realized how badly she needed something to hold her still.

“She’s almost ours,” he said.

And this time, she answered out loud.

“I know.” Her voice cracked around it—just a little. “I keep telling myself not to count it. Not to jinx it. Not until the ink’s dry.”

She looked back at Hanna, now trying to blow dandelion fluff at Arlo with all the grace of a malfunctioning fan.

“But then I see her doing stuff like that, and I think—yeah. She’s mine.”

Michaela’s throat tightened.

“She’s mine in every way that matters. The rest is just paperwork.”

Jeremy didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. His hand flexed in hers, the way it always did when he wanted her to know he was listening. Really listening.

Michaela exhaled slowly. “You know what’s stupid?”

She didn’t wait for an answer.

“I used to think if I let myself believe it—really believe it—I’d lose her. Like the second I called her mine out loud, the universe would take it back. Just to prove a point.”

Her laugh was bitter at the edges. Self-aware. Sharp.

“But I’m tired of being scared of everything I love.”

Her eyes drifted down to where Hanna and Arlo were now comparing invisible bugs and squealing at nothing. Arlo had flung himself into a full dramatic sprawl and Hanna had followed, their limbs tangled in the grass like chaos incarnate.

Michaela smiled. Soft. Small.

“She calls me mama now,” she said. “Not every time. Not always first. But when she’s tired… when she wants something… when she thinks I’m not listening.”

Her voice wavered, and she shook her head like she could shove the tears back down.

“It undoes me.”

She turned to Jeremy finally, fully, her eyes meeting his with none of the guarded distance she used to carry like armor.

“I don’t need perfect. I don’t need easy. I just need this.”

Then, quieter:
“And I need you to keep holding me up when I forget how to stand.”

She looked back toward their daughter.

“Because I’m not bracing anymore. I’m here. And she deserves that.”

Michaela leaned in, pressed her forehead briefly against his shoulder, then pulled away before it turned into something too fragile to handle in public.

“Also,” she added, dry as ever, “if I catch Wyatt teaching Arlo how to eat dirt again, I’m sending you to do the lecture this time.”

Her tone was light, but her hand stayed curled in his, firm. Steady.

Because no matter how scared she’d been—no matter how long it took—

She was ready now.

Ready to stay. Ready to fight for what was hers.

Ready to be mama, fully and out loud.

Even if it undid her a little, every time.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t need to.

Evie’s words—soft, almost shy in the way she admitted them—landed somewhere in the center of his chest like a match being struck in the dark. Warm. Bright. Familiar.

God, he loved her voice when it got like that. When she let herself speak without armor. When the edges dulled and her words came out like truth instead of defense.

He turned just enough to look at her.

Really look.

Not at the mess they’d made getting here. Not at the hard years or the quiet days where she’d barely let herself be held. Not even at the soft weight of Arlo now happily crushing the hem of her shirt, sticky with dandelion fuzz and victory.

Just her.

Evie.

Holding his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. Leaning into him like she wasn’t afraid of what came next.

Wyatt let the silence stretch for a second longer before speaking—because some moments deserved the space to settle.

“You ever think maybe this,” he said quietly, tilting his head toward the field, the noise, the laughter, “was what it was all leading to?”

He wasn’t usually the poetic one. Not out loud.

But she made him want to try.

“I mean—don’t get me wrong,” he added, smirking faintly as Arlo shrieked in victory and flung himself at Jeremy’s leg, “I’ve had some version of chaos on my bingo card since day one. I just didn’t know it’d come with dandelions and someone who looks at me like that.”

He nudged her gently with his shoulder.

“Like I’m not just a guy trying to keep up. Like maybe I’m part of the good day, too.”

The thought made his chest tighten, but not in a bad way.

He wasn’t used to feeling claimed. Needed? Sure. Useful? Always. But claimed? Like someone had planted their flag and said you—right there—you’re mine?

That was new.

And she did it without saying a word.

He reached down absently and plucked a clover from the grass, twirling it once between his fingers before tucking it into the curve of Evie’s elbow.

His voice dropped to something only she could hear.

“You feel like mine too.”

Then, quieter still—

“And I’m gonna keep showing up for that. For you. Even on the sticky days.”

He glanced out across the field again—at Michaela, who was pretending not to laugh as Hanna stomped off with a flower crown askew; at Jeremy, crouching beside Arlo with the kind of patience Wyatt had always admired.

This was his life.

Weird. Loud. Blessedly imperfect.

And when he looked back down at Evie—her face flushed from the sun, her mouth tilted into something that wasn’t quite a smile but close enough—it hit him all over again.

He didn’t need perfect.

He just needed this.

“You wanna go rescue Jeremy before our kid turns into a woodland dictator?” he asked lightly, already rising to his feet and pulling her with him. “Or should we just pretend this isn’t happening and go make out behind the lemonade stand like respectable adults?”

He grinned.

Evie rolled her eyes, but he caught the smile underneath.

And that was enough.

He listened.

Not because he didn’t have anything to say—but because she needed space to say it first. And God, when she finally did… it hit him like a slow-moving wave. Gentle, sure, and devastating in the best way.

Every word out of her cracked something open.

Not in her—in him.

Because he remembered.

He remembered the nights she wouldn’t look at Hanna’s drawings because they weren’t “official.” The silence that used to stretch between them when the lawyer emails came in. The way she’d rehearse detachment like it was armor, and pretend it didn’t leave bruises.

He remembered holding her when she couldn’t sleep. When the fear twisted so tight inside her it came out sharp, cold, impossible to reach.

And he remembered thinking—if I could carry this for her, I would.

But he couldn’t.

He could only stay.

So he did.

Now, here she was.

Sitting beside him in a sundress with a dandelion stuck to her ankle, holding his hand like she finally believed it wouldn’t slip away. And every word she spoke felt like a bridge being built. Brick by brick. Back to him. Back to herself.

“Because I’m not bracing anymore,” she said.

And God, didn’t that undo him.

He stared at her for a second, trying to speak around the knot in his throat. Her forehead had barely brushed his shoulder, but he felt the heat of it like a brand.

Then, of course, she had to break it—“if I catch Wyatt teaching Arlo how to eat dirt again…”

Jeremy snorted.

“That was one time,” he said, dry. “And technically Arlo started it. Wyatt just offered… commentary.”

Michaela gave him a look, sharp but affectionate, and he laughed quietly. Relief blooming beneath his ribs.

But he didn’t let go of her hand.

Wouldn’t. Ever.

“You don’t have to ask me to hold you up,” he said finally, voice low, just for her. “I already am. That’s the whole deal.”

He shifted slightly, so their knees bumped and stayed.

“You held me through my worst days, M. Even when I was too proud to admit they were bad. You made space for me when I didn’t deserve it. You taught me what this kind of love looks like.”

His thumb brushed the back of her hand, slow and sure.

“I’m not going anywhere. And neither are you. She’s ours. You’re hers. And I’m yours.”

A pause.

Then, with a crooked smile: “Even if you make me be the Dirt Eating Lecturer.”

Michaela rolled her eyes, but he saw it—the shimmer beneath. The softness she didn’t have to hide anymore.

They turned back toward the kids just as Hanna shrieked with laughter and launched a handful of clover into the air like confetti. Arlo looked momentarily stunned, then tried to eat a flower in protest.

Jeremy grinned.

“Alright, maybe I’ll start drafting that speech.”

But even as he joked, he leaned just a little closer. Pressed a kiss into her temple like punctuation.

She didn’t flinch.

Didn’t pull away.

She just… stayed.

And Jeremy—who’d spent years wondering if love meant chasing—finally understood what it felt like when someone chose to stay, too.

Not perfectly. Not easily.

But fully.

And God, wasn’t that everything?

She didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t need to.

Wyatt’s words landed like they always did when he wasn’t trying to be clever—quiet, low, just for her. And somehow heavier than anything loud.

You feel like mine too.

She didn’t know what it was about that sentence—simple, unpolished, unguarded—but it wrapped around something in her ribcage and pulled tight. Not painful. Just… real. Like a thread being tied. A stake being claimed.

And God, wasn’t that the thing?

She’d spent so much of her life floating—gripping people too fast, letting go too soon. Belonging nowhere. Not really. Not safely. She wasn’t used to being someone’s choice—not the long-haul, sticky-mornings, grass-in-your-shoes kind. Not the kind that stayed when things got messy or hard or quiet.

But Wyatt did.

Even now—grinning like an idiot, barefoot in the clover, dirt on his knees and sunlight in his lashes—he looked at her like she was something solid. Like she could plant herself in the middle of this day and stay.

And when he tucked that clover into her elbow like it meant something—like she meant something—Evie didn’t laugh.

She just let herself feel it.

You feel like mine too.

She could’ve cracked right then. Could’ve said a thousand things—about how much it terrified her to be loved like this, how much she wanted to believe he wouldn’t change his mind, how sometimes she still caught herself holding her breath around Arlo like waiting for him to disappear.

But she didn’t say any of it.

Instead, she reached down and traced her thumb across Wyatt’s wrist. Just once. Just enough.

“You are part of the good day,” she said softly, the words barely more than breath. “You always have been.”

And it wasn’t loud. Wasn’t dramatic.

But it was hers.

Honest. Whole.

She looked out at the others—at Jeremy trying to reason with Arlo like he wasn’t already a lost cause, at Michaela dragging a wayward sock back onto Hanna’s foot while muttering threats that sounded suspiciously like affection.

Evie took it all in.

The clover. The chaos. The clumsy, beautiful knot of people who somehow made her feel like something more than just a leftover.

Her family.

Her life.

And then, because Wyatt couldn’t help himself—

“Should we just pretend this isn’t happening and go make out behind the lemonade stand like respectable adults?”

She snorted.

“You have a very weird definition of ‘respectable.’”

Wyatt just wiggled his eyebrows.

Evie rolled her eyes, but the laugh slipped out anyway—quiet, real, tucked in her chest like something soft she hadn’t known she needed.

She let him pull her up.

“Fine,” she said, brushing off her shorts. “But if we get caught by the church ladies again, I’m blaming you.”

Wyatt slung an arm around her shoulders like he’d been waiting for her to say that exact sentence all day.

“Deal,” he said. “But I’m taking credit for the sparkle in your eye.”

She groaned, but didn’t pull away.

Didn’t brace.

Because for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like she was stealing something she wasn’t allowed to have.

She felt claimed.

Safe.

Here.

Michaela didn’t speak right away.

She just watched Hanna roll through the grass with a wild squeal and half a clover crown stuck to the side of her head, and let Jeremy’s words settle over her like a weighted blanket she didn’t realize she needed.

You don’t have to ask me to hold you up.

God.

She bit the inside of her cheek, hard. Not because she didn’t believe him—but because she did. Fully. Brutally. And belief like that always hurt a little when you weren’t used to it.

She turned to him slowly, eyes glassy but clear.

“I don’t know how I got so lucky,” she said. Voice low. Raw around the edges. “With her. With you.”

And then, with a tight, humorless laugh: “Okay. I do. I fought like hell. I grieved everything I thought I’d never have. I made peace with the idea that being a mom might never look the way I wanted it to.”

Her fingers gripped his harder, like she was afraid she’d float away if she didn’t hold on to something solid.

“But then she showed up. This tiny, furious little thing with yogurt in her hair and trauma in her bones—and I loved her before I even understood what that meant.”

She blinked hard. Breathed through the burn.

“And I pushed you away because I thought if I cracked open even a little, I’d break. I thought if I hoped out loud, it would all fall apart.”

Her eyes lifted to meet his.

“But it didn’t. You didn’t.”

She leaned forward, pressing her forehead to his for a second—just long enough to steady herself.

“You stayed.”

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud. But it was the most honest thing she’d ever said.

Then, because the moment was getting dangerously close to soft, she pulled back and added dryly, “But I am making you give Wyatt the dirt lecture. And you better make it sound serious. I want guilt. I want remorse.”

Jeremy laughed under his breath, and she felt it against her ribs—warm and solid and hers.

Michaela looked back toward the field just as Hanna threw her entire body at Arlo like a chaotic cannonball. Arlo toppled over, screamed with laughter, and started eating grass in protest.

She sighed.

“Okay. Maybe both of them need the lecture.”

Jeremy squeezed her hand once more, and Michaela let herself smile for real this time.

Because she wasn’t bracing.

She wasn’t waiting.

She was here.

She was loved.

And for the first time in forever, she was home.