Chapter 57
Chapter fifty-seven
Knox
Brynn’s always had tells—tiny ones. Like how she bites the inside of her cheek when she’s holding something back. Or how she’ll stir her coffee long after the cream’s dissolved, eyes a little too focused, like she’s mentally editing the screenplay of her life and doesn’t like the next scene.
She’s doing that right now.
Only it’s not coffee this time, it’s soup. Tomato bisque from Lowery’s that she requested and now hasn’t eaten more than three spoonfuls of. Her head tucked into her hand, elbow on the kitchen table, and her eyes keep flicking up at me and then darting away.
I lean against the counter, arms folded, pretending I haven’t noticed her acting like a middle-schooler hiding a note under her desk.
“Everything okay over there?” I ask, careful to keep my tone light.
She jumps a little, then immediately overcorrects with a too-bright smile. “Yep! Totally normal! Just…souping.”
Souping?
I narrow my eyes. “Souping?”
“Yeah. It’s like…soup, but a verb.”
“You’re making up verbs now?”
“I’m innovating. Embracing culinary fluidity.”
I stare at her. She stares at her soup. And I know. She knows. I don’t know how—but she does.
Maybe it was my tone earlier. Maybe I left the receipt for the ring in the truck. Maybe I talked in my sleep and said something deeply poetic like “Brynn Marlow, please let me put a diamond on your left hand and waffle batter in your hair every Sunday for the rest of our lives.”
But the bottom line is my girl is hiding something.
Which would be hilarious if I weren’t trying to plan the most important question I’ll ever ask.
I push off the counter and cross to the table, setting my hand over hers. Her fingers tense for half a second, then relax.
“You’re being weird,” I say gently, teasing.
She blinks up at me, scrunching her nose with an expression so full of innocence, it should be illegal. “I’m not weird. You’re weird.”
I tilt my head. “You’ve said five words since I walked in the door. Four of them were about soup. You dropped your phone in the sink while making tea. You kissed me on the cheek and said, ‘What a sturdy man,’ like I was an eighteen hundreds lumberjack.”
She tries to hold it in. Fails.
A laugh bursts out of her, half-snort, half-gasp. “Okay. That was maybe a little much.”
I pull her hand into my lap and rub my thumb along the back of it, slower now. “You sure you’re okay?”
She meets my eyes then, all soft and shining, and my chest tightens because yeah—she definitely knows. But instead of panicking or avoiding it, she just…smiles. Real and quiet and a little breathless.
“I’m good,” she says softly. “Better than good.”
I brush her hair back from her face. “You’d tell me if something was on your mind?”
“I’d try. But you usually figure me out before I get the words right.”
I lean down, kiss the corner of her mouth. “Hazard of loving someone since you were seventeen.”
Her hand slides up my arm, curling around my bicep. “Just for the record…if anything was up—hypothetically—I’d still act surprised. Like really surprised.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Gasps. Maybe a hand to the chest. One tear. Possibly two.”
I grin against her skin. “Sounds convincing.”
She kisses me back, soft and lingering, and whispers against my mouth, “Just make sure you keep being sturdy, Coach.”
“I plan to,” I murmur, resting my forehead against hers. “Gotta carry this whole future I’ve got planned for us.”
Her breath hitches. I feel it.
And for a second, we just sit there. Quiet and close and full of everything we haven’t said yet. But soon, I’ll say it all.
Evie barrels toward me with the force of a linebacker.
“Coach!” she squeals, arms wrapping around my legs. “Guess what? I named the rolls.”
I blink down at her. “You…named them?”
She nods so hard her curls bounce. “This one is Gerald, and this one’s named Miss Peppers, and this one is smaller but that’s okay because it’s shy.”
Brynn walks by with a wine glass in one hand and an oven mitt in the other. “Pretty sure shy bread still gets eaten, Evie.”
Evie gasps. “You wouldn’t.”
“I might.”
Evie shields the roll with her tiny body like she’s taking a bullet. Kate sighs from across the room. “We’re a civilized family,” she mutters. “Mostly.”
Chaos. Pure, happy chaos.
The Marlows, my parents, Kate, Kinsey, Cam, Evie. All of us packed into my childhood home like a bunch of Thanksgiving-themed sardines—someone’s always leaning over someone else, talking over the music, laughing too loud, opening drawers that definitely don’t contain serving spoons.
And it’s perfect.
I lean against the doorframe between the kitchen and dining room, watching it all unfold with that weird pressure in my chest I haven’t been able to shake lately. Not bad pressure, just…full. Full of every version of home I’ve ever wanted.
My dad’s carving the turkey like it’s a military operation.
My mom’s making notes about who brought what so she can “circle back” later with thank-you cards and critiques.
Cam’s in charge of drinks and has already spilled cider on Kinsey’s boots.
Brynn’s dad and mine are arguing over who gets the wishbone. Again.
And Brynn? She’s everywhere.
Helping Kinsey light candles on the table, laughing with Kate in the hallway, sneaking me that smile across the room when our eyes catch. That smile that says you’re mine and I see you and let’s go make out in the pantry later.
It hits me then—not like a thunderclap, but like a steady drumbeat under my skin. This is what I want. Always. Not just this moment. Not just on a holiday. I want every year, every day, to look like this—like us.
Only…in a house of our own.
I want to build something with her. A place we fill with noise and laughter and burnt pie crusts. A home where she feels safe to be exactly who she is. Loved down to the bone.
And I want her to know that I don’t just see a future with her—I crave it.
She rounds the corner again, glass now empty, cheeks flushed from kitchen heat, and pauses when she spots me watching.
“What?” she says with a smirk, coming over to stand in front of me.
I loop my fingers around her belt loops and tug her in closer. “Nothing.”
Her eyes narrow. “You’re staring like you’re thinking big thoughts.”
“I am.”
“Dangerous.”
I grin. “Just thinking how much I like seeing you here. With all of us.”
Her expression softens. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Feels like it’s exactly where you’re supposed to be.”
She nudges her nose against mine, barely a breath between us. “I feel that too.”
And just like that, the noise fades. The clatter of silverware and pop of laughter and endless background hum of Thanksgiving melts away until it’s just me and her, standing in a house built by my parents, dreaming of the one I’ll build with her.