Chapter 8
Chapter eight
Gabriel
“You don’t have to hover,” she says without turning around.
“I’m not hovering.”
“You’re standing two feet behind me watching the meatballs like they might defect.”
“They look incredible.”
She glances over her shoulder, wooden spoon in hand, hair pulled back loosely at the nape of her neck. “I know. I told you I can cook.”
“I’m allowed to appreciate greatness,” I mutter.
Maddie looks up from the table where she’s coloring what appears to be a purple unicorn wearing a hockey helmet. “Dad, you’re making the meatballs nervous.”
“I'm not making them nervous.”
“You are,” Natalie and Maddie say at the same time.
I lift both hands in surrender.
The kitchen smells like garlic and tomato sauce and something warm I can’t name yet. Not just food. Something steadier. Natalie stands at my stove like she’s done it a hundred times. Like this is her kitchen too.
It’s been less than twenty four hours.
That shouldn’t feel natural.
But it does.
“You didn’t have to cook,” I say, softer now.
She shrugs. “I wanted to. The first official family dinner deserves my favorite meal.”
“That smells ridiculous,” I say.
“It’s my specialty,” she replies. “And you need something that isn’t protein powder.”
“Fair.”
She smiles at that. Not big. Just that small curve that always hits harder than it should.
Maddie abandons the unicorn and climbs onto her knees on the chair. “Can I help?”
Natalie crouches immediately so they’re eye level. No hesitation. No sigh. “You can roll one more meatball. Clean hands?”
Maddie flashes her palms like she’s presenting evidence in court. “Washed twice.”
I lean against the counter and watch.
Natalie doesn’t flinch when sauce splatters onto the front of her shirt. She laughs. Maddie laughs harder. A streak of red lands on my forearm.
“See?” Natalie says, pointing the spoon at me. “They’re nervous. That one jumped when Maddie dropped it.”
“I stand corrected,” I say.
Maddie carefully presses another lopsided meatball together and drops it into the pan. “This one’s mine.”
“Then you have to eat it,” I say.
She gasps. “I'm going to.”
Natalie wipes her hands and walks to the sink, bumping lightly into me as she turns. My hand lifts automatically to steady her waist. She doesn’t react like it’s foreign. She just shifts and keeps moving.
Too natural.
I didn’t expect comfort to feel like this. I expected tension. I expected awkward.
Instead, I’m watching my wife argue with my daughter about the correct shape of pasta.
“You can’t discriminate against elbows,” Natalie says.
“I like the twisty ones better,” Maddie insists.
“Then we make both,” Natalie decides. “Marriage means compromise.”
Maddie squints at her. “You just got married yesterday.”
“I’m a fast learner.”
I laugh before I can stop myself.
Maddie points at me. “Dad, you have to set the table. That’s your job.”
“Oh, is it?”
“Yes. Married dads do that.”
Natalie bites back a grin. “She’s not wrong.”
I grab plates. Forks. Napkins. The small domestic rhythm settles in like muscle memory.
At the table, Maddie insists on saying a prayer that involves thanking God for sparkly dresses, Daisy, and Natalie marrying Dad. The last one makes Natalie blink and me swallow hard.
“And too bad Jenna’s out tonight,” Maddie adds quickly. “She’s missing the meatballs.”
“She’ll get leftovers,” Natalie says warmly. “We’ll save her some so she can try them tomorrow.”
Dinner becomes chaotic in the best way.
Maddie drops her fork. Daisy materializes under the table like she’s been summoned. Maddie "accidentally" lets a meatball roll off her plate. Daisy inhales it before I can react.
“Maddie,” I warn.
“What?” she says, wide-eyed. “It slipped.”
Natalie presses her lips together to hide a smile. “It’s okay. We can make an exception for one meatball, but we usually don't give her people food,” she says gently.
Then Maddie gets sauce on her cheek in the process stuffing a fork full of pasta into her mouth. Natalie wipes it with her thumb without thinking. I take a bite of the garlic bread. Natalie nudges the salad toward me like she knows I’ll ignore it otherwise.
I pop another meatball into my mouth.
“These are ridiculous,” I say, shaking my head. “You’re dangerously good at this.”
“Careful,” she says. “I’ll start cooking every night.”
Maddie’s eyes widen. “Yes.”
I look between them. “You two did a great job.”
“Teamwork,” Maddie says proudly.
I watch Natalie while Maddie talks about school and unicorn folders and Mr. Pickles asserting dominance over Daisy.
She listens. Really listens. She asks follow up questions. She laughs at the right moments. She doesn’t try to take over. She doesn’t perform.
She’s not trying too hard.
She’s just here.
You chose well.
The thought lands solid in my chest.
***
After dinner, Maddie attempts to negotiate out of bath time.
“Married people stay up later,” she argues.
“Married people still get clean and brush their teeth,” Natalie counters.
Maddie groans dramatically but lets Natalie lead her upstairs. I follow slower, leaning in the doorway while Natalie sits on the edge of the tub, rolling up her sleeves.
“You can pour the bubbles,” she tells Maddie.
Maddie beams like she’s been handed the Stanley Cup.
“Natalie, I can take over. You can go relax.”
“Nope. I want to do it. Maddie and I have a game to play with the bubbles.”
I could step away.
I don’t.
***
I watch Natalie braid Maddie’s damp hair after the bath. Watch her read in different voices. Watch Maddie curl against her side like she’s done it forever.
This isn’t sexual tension.
This is something deeper.
This is anchoring.
When Maddie finally falls asleep, Natalie brushes a hand over her forehead and tucks the blanket under her chin.
“Is she good?” I ask quietly.
“She’s good.”
We close the door gently.
Downstairs, she loads the dishwasher with the plates. I grab a towel and dry the pots and pans without being asked.
The house hums softly. Refrigerator. Dishwasher. Daisy shifting in her sleep.
We move around each other easily. Too easily.
I clear my throat.
“That party.”
Her shoulders go still for half a second.
“Two years ago?” she asks without turning.
“Yeah.”
She sets the plate down slowly. “That’s random.”
“Not really.”
Silence settles. Not heavy. Just aware.
“You remember it,” I say.
“I remember you leaning too close on the balcony,” she replies. “I remember Mason hovering like a security system.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “He was three beers in and watching me like I was about to steal government property.”
“You were,” she says lightly.
I step closer, leaning my hip against the counter. “I wanted to kiss you.”
She finally turns.
Her eyes glance up to mine. Steady.
“I know,” she says.
“You do?”
“I’m not oblivious.”
I study her face. “Did you want me to?”
She holds my gaze this time. “Yes,” she says, honest and steady. “I wanted you to.”
Something moves in my pants.
“But I didn’t trust what would happen after,” she adds. “You had a reputation, and I wasn’t interested in being a headline.”
“That’s fair.”
“And because I liked you,” she finishes quietly.
That hits.
“Liked me,” I repeat.
“Enough that I didn’t want to be another story.”
I nod slowly.
“You weren’t off limits because of Mason,” I say. “You were off limits because I knew I wouldn’t treat you casually.”
Her breath shifts.
“That night,” I continue, “I was fresh off a win. Everyone was loud. I was not in a place to do something careful. And you deserved careful.”
She looks down at her hands.
“I didn’t trust your timing,” she admits. “Not your character. Your timing.”
“That’s accurate.”
“I didn’t want to be something you tried on after a good game.”
“You wouldn’t have been.”
“But you couldn’t guarantee that then,” she says.
She’s right.
I step closer.
“So why now?” I ask quietly. “Why did you say yes?”
She leans back against the counter. Doesn’t break eye contact.
“Because I trust you,” she says. “Because you show up. Because when things get hard, you don’t disappear. You lean in.”
I swallow.
“Because I’ve seen you choose Maddie over everything” she continues. “And because you never once tried to flirt your way into something easy with me.”
“That would’ve gone badly.”
“It would’ve gone nowhere,” she corrects.
She studies me now.
“Why me?” she asks.
“Because you’re steady,” I answer immediately. “Because you don’t panic. Because you don’t get dazzled by the hockey stuff. Because you see me as a dad before you see me as a player.”
Her throat moves.
“And because you were never easy,” I add. “You never leaned in just because I looked at you. You made me think.”
Silence stretches between us.
I reach out without thinking and brush a faint streak of dried sauce from her wrist. My thumb lingers a fraction too long.
She doesn’t pull away.
Her breathing shifts.
My hand lifts, hesitates, then gently brushes a loose strand of hair back from her face.
“Careful,” she murmurs.
“Why?”
“Because this is the part where we forget we promised not to rush.”
I step closer anyway.
Her back meets the counter. My hands settle lightly at her waist. Not gripping. Just there.
“I’m not rushing,” I say softly.
Her fingers curl into the front of my shirt.
“Gabriel.”
The way she says my name now is different. Not formal. Not teasing.
Mine.
I lower my mouth to hers.
No audience. No barking dog. No small voice calling from upstairs.
This isn’t the courthouse kiss.
This isn’t the kitchen almost from last night.
This is slower.
I take my time. I feel the shape of her lips. The warmth. The soft exhale when she leans into it instead of away.
Her hands slide up my chest, over my shoulders. I feel it everywhere.
I deepen it just enough to make her gasp.
Her fingers press into my back like she’s bracing herself.
I want to lift her.
I don’t.
I want to forget patience.
I don’t.
My mouth trails once along her jaw, to the edge of her neck. I feel her shiver.
“Gabriel,” she whispers again.
It’s not a warning.
It’s a choice.
I pull back.
Her eyes are wide. Lips flushed. Breath uneven.
I’m not sure mine is any steadier.
“We’re not rushing,” I say, voice rougher than I intended.
She nods.
Neither of us steps away.
The air feels charged. Like something coiled and waiting.
“This isn’t about timing anymore,” I say quietly.
“No,” she agrees.
“It’s about inevitability.”
She studies me.
“That’s a dangerous word.”
“Maybe.”
Upstairs, the house stays quiet. Maddie is asleep. Daisy is snoring.
Natalie presses her forehead lightly to mine.
“We’re doing this right,” she says.
“Yeah.”
But my hands are still on her waist.
And hers are still on my shoulders.
And when I finally step back, it’s not because I want to.
It’s because this matters too much to rush.
I watch her as she turns off the kitchen light.
My wife.
Not strategy.
Not optics.
Not fear.
Choice.
And for the first time since this started, I’m not thinking about custody.
I’m thinking about the way she looked at me when I said inevitable.
And how badly I want to be right.