Chapter 17
Lucy, Six Months Later
I stared at the corkboard in front of me, its surface a chaotic mess of pinned-up index cards and scribbled notes. Red string zigzagged between pushpins like a crime scene diagram, connecting plot twists and character fates. My fingers hovered over one card, but I didn’t touch it. Not yet. The idea was there, almost fully formed, but I needed to let it breathe a little longer.
"You're no help," I muttered, glancing up at Mr. Whiskers. He sat regal as ever on his shelf above my desk, his plush fur still pristine despite how many times he’d been clutched in moments of panic—or comfort.
The bay window threw light across the room, catching the edges of my laptop and stacks of horror anthologies. Marcus had insisted on the window. "Every writer needs natural light," he’d said, arms crossed like it wasn’t up for debate. And he'd been right, damn him. The soft glow made the space feel . . . alive. Mine.
I leaned back in my chair, chewing on the end of a pen. Six months ago, this room had been nothing but cracked plaster and dust-covered memories. Now, it smelled faintly of cedar and coffee, warm and safe in ways that shouldn't have felt so unfamiliar.
Then it hit me. That sound. Gentle but steady. Like a heartbeat. Tick. Tick. Tick.
The grandfather clock. Dad’s old clock.
I swiveled in my chair, craning my neck toward the hallway. The ticking carried through the open doorway, rhythmic and dependable. I couldn’t stop the smile tugging at my lips. Marcus had spent weeks on that thing, hunched over it with tools I didn’t recognize and a stubborn set to his jaw that warned me not to interrupt. He hadn’t told me why he was so fixated on it. Not until the day he revealed it, polished and perfect, standing tall where it belonged.
"Something old for your something new," he’d said then, brushing sawdust off his hands. His eyes had softened when they met mine, blue like the sky after a storm.
"Oh, Daddy," I’d whispered, voice shaky. "You didn’t have to—"
"Yeah, I did." No hesitation. Just truth. It’s what he did, really. Took broken things and made them whole again.
I sighed, dragging a hand through my hair. The memory wrapped around me, warm and heavy. Comfortable. Too comfortable.
I ran my fingers along the wainscoting, smooth and familiar under my touch. It was the same wood my dad had picked out decades ago, though now it stretched further than it ever had before. Marcus’s handiwork. He’d matched it perfectly, every groove and grain seamless where the old house met the new addition. Like it had always been here. Like he’d known exactly how to make the past and present fit together.
"How do you do that?" I whispered, shaking my head. My voice bounced off the quiet hallway, swallowed by the walls that no longer felt too big or too empty.
The house didn’t echo like it used to. Now it felt full—of life, of memory, of him.
My steps slowed as I approached the study door. Or what used to be the study, anyway. The brass knob was polished now, gleaming faintly in the dim light filtering through the hallway. I hesitated, hand hovering over the doorknob. My chest tightened for just a second, that old ache still lingering whenever I thought about the man who used to sit on the other side of this door.
"Okay," I muttered, turning the handle. "You’ve done this a dozen times. It’s not haunted."
The library greeted me with a soft warmth that hit me square in the chest. Dad’s shelves were still there, lined with his favorite Stephen King hardcovers, spines cracked from years of rereads. But now they shared space with *my* books—paperbacks with creased pages, horror titles that Marcus had surprised me with after trips into town. There was even a little stuffed bat wedged between It and Carrie . I’d caught him sneaking it onto the shelf last week, grinning like a kid caught red-handed.
"Your collection’s looking almost respectable," he’d teased, brushing my hair back behind my ear. His fingers lingered just long enough to make my breath hitch.
"Almost," I’d shot back, trying to sound casual when my heart was doing somersaults. "But don’t think you can bribe me with cute bats forever."
"Not forever," he’d murmured, leaning close enough that his stubble brushed my cheek. "Just long enough."
God, he was infuriating. And impossible. And—somehow—the only person who’d ever made me feel completely seen.
I stepped further inside, trailing my hand along the edge of the desk. It wasn’t Dad’s old one. That had been beyond saving, warped and split from years of neglect. This one was newer, sturdier, but Marcus had sanded it down until the finish matched the rest of the room. He’d even added a small drawer with a lock—a concession, he’d said, for all the "creepy" research I liked to keep tucked away.
"Can’t have anyone thinking you’re plotting murders in here, Baby Girl," he’d joked, though the look in his eyes when he handed me the key was anything but teasing. Protective. Possessive, even. Like this was my sanctuary, and no one else’s.
I sank into the armchair by the window, letting the worn leather cradle me. My dad’s chair. The one he used to pull me into when I couldn’t sleep, reading aloud until my eyelids grew heavy. I could still hear his voice sometimes, low and steady, weaving through the words like it was magic.
Marcus read like that too. Different cadence, deeper timbre, but the same comfort threaded through every syllable. I could almost feel his arms around me now, holding me close, his chin resting atop my head while he turned the pages.
"Do you even like this stuff, or is it just an excuse to cuddle?" I’d asked him once, half-asleep in his lap.
"Maybe both," he’d admitted, lips brushing the shell of my ear. Then he’d kissed that spot just below it, the one that made my whole body shiver. "But I don’t hear you complaining."
Not a chance.
My gaze flicked back to the shelves, lingering on titles I hadn’t touched yet. A growing pile of possibilities, waiting for me to dive in. For us to dive in.
"Guess we’ll need another late-night session soon," I murmured, smiling to myself. My fingertips found the edge of the chair's armrest, tracing the grooves worn smooth by time.
Now, sitting here didn’t feel like mourning. It felt like home.
The sound of Marcus’s truck rumbling into the driveway pulled me out of my thoughts. My pulse kicked up, same as it always did when I heard that engine. Six months together and he still managed to set me off like a damn firecracker. I moved to the window, brushing aside the curtain just enough to see him.
There he was, broad shoulders hunched as he climbed out of the driver’s seat. Sawdust clung to his jeans, streaked across his shirt, and dusted his dark hair like sugar on a donut. He grabbed something from the bed of the truck—a long plank of wood—and then another. A few bags of what looked like drywall compound sat stacked near the tailgate. More supplies. For the last week, he’d been disappearing upstairs with stuff like this, locking the door behind him like he was guarding some kind of state secret.
I bit my lip, watching him haul the materials toward the front porch. His arms flexed under the weight, the muscles shifting like they were made for this kind of work. Which, I guess they were. He caught me staring once, said something about how "a man’s hands oughta show what he’s built" while running one of those big, calloused palms down my back. I hadn’t stood a chance after that.
He glanced up suddenly, catching me in the act. Damn. I dropped the curtain, stepping back like I’d been caught stealing cookies. The front door creaked open a minute later, heavy boots scuffing against the entryway.
"Hey." His voice was warm, low, familiar. It wrapped around me like a blanket fresh from the dryer.
"Hey yourself," I said, heading toward him. I didn’t even try to hide my smile.
Marcus set down the lumber with a thud before turning to face me. His blue eyes glinted, sharp and soft all at once, like he knew exactly what I was thinking. He always did.
"Busy day?" I asked, gesturing toward the dusty mess on his clothes.
"Something like that," he said, brushing his hands together. "You’re lookin’ at a man who’s been wrestling drywall mud. And losing."
Since taking charge of my renovations, Marcus had been helping other people around the town. Mrs. Henderson needed some repairs to her place before winter, and Marcus had stepped in to help.
"Clearly." I stepped closer, swiping a finger against his shirt and holding it up. White powder coated the tip. "So, when are you going to tell me what’s going on upstairs?"
"Upstairs? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He grinned, slow and crooked, the kind of grin that always got me in trouble.
"Daddy Marcus." I crossed my arms, trying to look stern. "You’ve been sneaking around that room for days now. What are you working on?"
"Nothing you need to worry about," he said, leaning in. His hand found my waist, pulling me closer. "Not yet, anyway."
"Not yet?"
"Mm-hmm." His lips brushed mine, barely there. Just enough to tease. "You’ll see when it’s done."
"That’s not fair," I murmured against his mouth.
"Life's not fair, baby girl," he whispered back, and God, the way he said it—low, rough, like he was tasting every word. My knees nearly buckled.
"Marcus—"
"Shh," he said, kissing me properly this time. Thoroughly. Like he had all the time in the world. His fingers slid up my spine, tangling in my hair, anchoring me to him. I melted, same as I always did, and forgot whatever argument I thought I’d been making.
When he finally pulled back, I was breathless. And suspicious.
"Don’t think you can distract me, Daddy," I warned, poking his chest. "I’m gonna figure out what you’re hiding."
"Good luck with that," he said, smirking as he grabbed his tools and headed toward the stairs. His boots thudded against the steps, each sound a reminder of the secret he still wasn’t telling me.
"Marcus!" I called after him, but he didn’t stop. Just waved over his shoulder like the cocky bastard he was.
I huffed, crossing my arms again. Whatever he was up to, I’d get it out of him eventually. One way or another.
Dinner was chicken Parmesan, the kind Marcus made when he wanted to spoil me. The kitchen smelled like garlic and basil, and the low hum of his playlist—classic rock tonight—set an easy rhythm as we ate. I twirled a strand of spaghetti around my fork, watching him across the table. His hands were still dusted with bits of sawdust, even though he’d washed them before sitting down. It clung to him, just like the mystery upstairs.
"Do you remember that pipe bursting?" I asked, smiling around the memory. “Funny to think that was this house. Life seems so different now.”
He glanced up mid-bite, brow lifting. "How could I forget? You screamed bloody murder."
"Well, excuse me for not expecting Niagara Falls in my kitchen," I shot back, laughing. "That was not a normal amount of water, Marcus."
"Well this place hadn't seen proper maintenance in years," he said, pointing his fork at me. "You’re lucky it didn’t come crashing down altogether."
"Hey, don’t insult her!" I wagged a finger at him. "She had good bones. Just needed some love."
"Yeah," he said, quieter now, his gaze softening. "Kind of like someone else I know."
I felt the heat crawl up my neck, but I ignored it, stabbing at my salad instead. "Anyway, if it weren’t for that stupid pipe, who knows where we’d be now?"
"Probably still dancing around each other at The Daily Grind," he teased. "Me trying to find excuses to talk to you without looking desperate."
"Please," I snorted. "You were about as subtle as a freight train."
"Worked, didn’t it?"
"Debatable," I muttered, but my grin gave me away.
We fell into an easy rhythm after that, trading memories like cards. The carnival date came up next—the night where we really started to feel like a couple. Then there was Emily, the misunderstanding that nearly wrecked everything before it started. Marcus grimaced when I brought her up.
"God, that was a mess," he said, shaking his head.
Thankfully, Emily now had the help she needed. She was in an alcohol program, staying with her parents. And I was working on forgiving her for doing what she did.
"Yeah, but we figured it out." I reached across the table, touching his hand. "Because you didn’t give up on me. Even when I tried to push you away."
"Never planned to," he said simply, flipping his palm to lace his fingers with mine.
"Well, I’m glad you didn’t." My voice dropped, quiet but steady. "Because you . . . you see me. All of me. And you don’t think I’m broken or weird or—"
"Lucy." His tone was firm, cutting through the self-deprecation I hadn’t even realized was creeping in. "I don’t want to hear anything about you being broken or weird. You’re perfect. Every piece of you. Don’t ever doubt that."
I swallowed hard, blinking fast. Damn him and his way of saying exactly what I needed to hear.
"Okay," I whispered.
"Okay." He squeezed my hand once, then let go to start clearing the plates.
After dinner, I followed him into the living room, expecting our usual routine: couch, TV, maybe some cuddling if I played my cards right. But Marcus didn’t sit. Instead, he stood by the doorway, shifting from foot to foot like he couldn’t decide whether to move or stay put.
"Marcus?" I prompted, cocking my head. "You okay?"
"Yeah." His voice was rough, clipped. "Just . . . come with me, okay? There’s something I want to show you."
"Marcus, what—"
"Just trust me," he said, his tone softer now, coaxing.
And because I always did, I followed him.
Marcus’s palm was warm against the small of my back as he guided me down the hall. Mr. Whiskers sat snug in the crook of my elbow, his fur slightly matted from years of use. My heart thudded unevenly, each step up the creaky staircase a beat louder.
"Are you gonna tell me what this is about?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Not yet," Marcus said, his tone maddeningly calm, though the tightness around his jaw betrayed him.
We stopped outside the door to the mystery room. The one he’d been disappearing into for weeks, brushing off my questions with that infuriating grin. His hand dropped from my back, and he reached for the doorknob, pausing just long enough to glance at me.
"Ready?"
"Depends," I quipped, but my chest tightened.
He pushed the door open.
I gasped.
The air left my lungs in one sharp whoosh, and I clutched Mr. Whiskers like he might anchor me.
"Marcus . . ."
The room unfolded before me, soft and inviting, like stepping into a dream I didn’t even know I had. The walls were painted a familiar pale blue, the exact shade I’d come to love in the laundry room where we’d first connected. It felt like home, but also something entirely new.
A daybed sat against the far wall, piled high with plush blankets in soothing tones. Shelves lined another wall, packed tight with stuffed animals—bears, bunnies, cats, even a ridiculous-looking duck with a crooked beak. At their center was a rocking chair, its wooden arms worn smooth, and the soft cream-colored cushion looked so much like the one my mom used to have that it made my throat tighten.
"Marcus," I managed again, barely above a whisper.
"Keep looking," he murmured.
My feet moved without thought. String lights twinkled across the ceiling, casting a faint glow that softened every edge. A small craft table sat in one corner, colored pencils and paper neatly arranged like they were waiting for me. Beside it, a stack of books rested on a low shelf, their spines gleaming under the light.
But it was the far corner that undid me.
A cozy nook, framed by curtains strung on delicate rods. Inside was a beanbag chair, a little lamp shaped like a star, and a basket overflowing with picture books.
"Story time," I choked out, the word sticking in my throat. Tears blurred my vision. I blinked hard, but they spilled over anyway, hot streaks down my cheeks.
"Hey," he said softly, stepping closer. His thumb brushed away a tear, gentle enough to make me cry harder.
"How... how did you do all this? You bought all this stuff, smuggled it in?” My voice wavered, breaking apart like glass.
He shrugged, but the way his hand lingered on my cheek told me this wasn’t casual for him. Not even close. "I’d do anything for you, sweetheart. Even smuggle toys inside building supply packages."
"Marcus . . ." It was all I could say. All I could feel.
"Do you like it?" He looked nervous, more than I’d ever seen him. Vulnerable, even.
"Like it?" I let out a shaky laugh, clutching Mr. Whiskers tighter. "It’s perfect. It’s . . . God, Marcus, it’s everything. A nursery. Just for me."
“For us,” he corrected.
I turned back to the room, taking it all in again. Every little detail screamed you matter . That I was seen. Known. Loved.
"Thank you," I whispered.
"Don’t thank me yet," he said, his lips twitching into a faint smile. "There’s more."
I turned back to him, gripping Mr. Whiskers so tight my knuckles ached. The room already felt like stepping into something sacred, something carved out of my dreams. What more could there be?
"Come here," he said, holding out his hand. His palm looked rough, sawdust still clinging to the creases, but it was steady. Solid. Like it always was.
I took it, my fingers trembling against his. He led me toward the rocking chair— my chair now, I realized, the one that pulled memories of my mom’s lullabies from the far corners of my mind—and stopped just short of it. His thumb brushed over mine as he turned to face me again, those piercing blue eyes softening in a way they rarely did.
"Lucy," he started, then paused. His jaw tightened, like the words were harder to say than the hours he’d spent building this space. "You’ve got your writing room downstairs. Your world, your rules."
"Yeah. . ." I breathed, unsure where he was going but unwilling to interrupt.
"This," he gestured around us, his arm sweeping wide, "this is your place too. Just different. A place where you don’t have to think, or push yourself. Where you can just be Little. Safe. Seen. Small."
"Marcus. . ." My chest squeezed, words tangling up in my throat.
"Every detail," he pressed on, his hand tightening around mine. "The colors, the lights, the stuffed animals. It’s not random, Lucy. This isn’t just decorating. This is me giving you what you deserve—what you need. A space where you don’t have to apologize for any part of you. Ever."
"God," I whispered, clutching Mr. Whiskers tighter, like the old bear might keep me from floating away altogether.
"Do you get it now?" His voice had a little edge, not angry but intense. Like he needed me to understand this wasn’t about him. "This is yours. Like your writing room, but for the part of you that doesn’t have to do anything. No deadlines, no expectations. Just you."
I nodded, swallowing hard, but he didn’t let me off the hook that easy.
"Say it," he murmured.
"It’s mine," I managed, though the words came out watery. I blinked fast, trying to keep it together, but damn it, he knew me too well.
"Good girl," he said, soft but firm, and the praise sent warmth rushing through me, grounding me even as my knees went weak.
I stepped away, needing a second to breathe without his intensity washing over me, and wandered toward the corner by the window. That’s when I saw it—the clock.
"Wait," I said, stopping dead. "Is that . . . ?"
"Yeah." His grin was crooked, boyish. Proud.
It was a smaller version of the grandfather clock in the hallway downstairs, but this one was different. Whimsical. The numbers swirled in odd directions, painted in bright colors that reminded me of carnival rides and bedtime stories. Tiny stars and moons framed the face, catching the light in a delicate shimmer.
"Marcus, it’s beautiful," I said, brushing my fingertips over the polished wood. It was smooth and cool, clearly handmade with the same care as everything else in this room. "But why . . . ?"
"Because time moves differently here," he said, stepping closer. His hands slid into his pockets, but I could tell he was watching me carefully, gauging my reaction. "For you. When you’re in this space, nothing outside matters. Not work, not the past, not what anyone else thinks. Just this. Just now."
I stared at the clock, its face ticking softly but somehow feeling slower, calmer, like it was breathing along with me.
"Time moves differently," I echoed, my voice barely above a whisper.
"That’s right." He stood behind me now, close enough that I could feel his heat, his presence wrapping around me like a blanket. "This room, this clock—it’s all for you, Luce."
His broad shoulders were squared, his jaw tight like he was bracing himself. And in his hand—a small, velvet box.
"Lucy," he continued, his voice low, steady, but I could hear the edge of nerves underneath. "I’ve been thinking about how to do this for weeks. Months, really."
"Daddy…" My voice was barely there, trembling like the rest of me. I wanted to move closer, but my feet stayed planted.
"Just let me get this out, darlin’." He smiled, soft and crooked, the way he did when he was trying to calm me down. His thumb rubbed over the edge of the box like he needed the motion to keep grounded. "You came back to Small Falls and flipped my whole damn world upside down."
I swallowed hard, my chest tight. His eyes pinned me in place, blue and unflinching, full of so much it almost hurt to look at him.
"You showed up with walls so high, I thought I’d never find a way in," he said, his voice softening. "But you let me. You gave me pieces of yourself, little by little. Your humor, your fears, your Little side. All those things you thought nobody would understand or want? I wanted them, Luce. Every single piece."
"Marcus. . ." My knees wobbled. I squeezed Mr. Whiskers to keep myself upright.
"Yeah, baby girl, I’m not done yet." His smirk flickered, teasing but tender. "Because here’s the thing: I didn’t just fix your pipes or help you build this house. We built something bigger. Something I didn’t think I’d get again after…" He trailed off, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. "After everything."
He took a deep breath, steadying himself. His fingers tightened around the box, knuckles pale under the workshop calluses. "We’re two busted-up people, Lucy, but we fit. Like this house—old bones, new pieces, all stitched together into something that feels like home."
"Marcus. . ." Tears blurred my vision now. I couldn’t stop saying his name, like it was the only thing tethering me to reality.
"I want to keep building with you. A future. A family. Whatever shape that takes."
The box creaked open, revealing a ring that shimmered faintly even in the nursery’s low light. It wasn’t flashy or new—it looked vintage, delicate, restored with the same care he put into everything that mattered to him. To us.
"Lucy Ann Emerson," he said, his voice dropping, raw and steady all at once. "Will you marry me?"
My breath hitched. "Yes," I whispered. Then louder, firmer: "Yes!"
The word barely left my lips before Marcus’s hands trembled—just slightly—as he slid the ring onto my finger. The metal was cool against my skin, its weight delicate but sure, like it belonged there all along. My fingers curled instinctively, holding onto the feeling.
"Looks good on you," he murmured, his voice low, rough, like gravel warmed by sunlight. His thumb brushed over mine, lingering for just a second too long. I felt that touch everywhere.
The grandfather clock chimed then, breaking the quiet. And downstairs, back in the adult world, I heard the other clock chime too. Both worlds, both sides of me, perfectly in sync.
"Marcus…" My throat tightened around his name. It was all I could manage.
"Shh, darlin’." He rose slowly, unfolding his strong frame from where he'd knelt, his eyes never leaving mine. Blue and steady, fierce in the way they pinned me in place. When he stood, he was so close. Close enough I could smell the faint sawdust clinging to him, the hint of cedar and sweat that came with hours of work.
"You're shaking," he said softly, brushing a knuckle along my cheek.
"Am not," I shot back, though my voice wobbled, betraying me.
His lips quirked into that crooked grin that always made my stomach flip. "Liar."
"Shut up," I muttered, but the words didn’t have any bite. Not when his hand slipped to the small of my back, tugging me against him.
"Make me," he challenged, his mouth hovering just above mine.
"Marcus," I breathed, the sound more plea than protest.
"Yeah?" His tone was teasing, but his grip on me tightened, firm, possessive. Commanding in a way that made warmth pool low in my belly.
"Just . . . kiss me already."
"Your wish, Little girl." His voice dropped even lower, almost dangerous, before his lips crushed down onto mine.
It wasn’t soft or tentative. It was slow-burning fire and pent-up hunger, all control and no hesitation. His beard scraped against my skin, grounding me, while his hands roamed—one sliding up my spine, the other curling protectively at my hip.
I melted into him, my arms winding around his neck, pulling him closer until there was nothing between us but heat and need. The edge of the rocking chair bumped into my leg, but I barely noticed.
"Lucy," he rasped against my mouth, pulling away just far enough to look at me. His pupils were blown wide, dark swallowing blue.
"Yeah?" My voice was breathy, unfamiliar even to me.
"Say it again."
"Say what?" I blinked up at him, dazed.
"That you're mine." His tone was rough now, demanding.
"Always," I promised without thinking, the truth spilling out before doubt could catch up.
"Good girl," he growled, and it sent a shiver racing down my spine.
Before I could respond, his lips were on mine again, stealing every coherent thought I might’ve had left.