Prologue
MIA
Two years later
I SHOULD BE HAPPY. By all accounts, I have everything I ever wanted. The kind of life I used to imagine in daydreams, the ones I told myself I didn’t deserve back when I was younger, stupider, and hell-bent on self-sabotage.
A home that feels like ours. A love that still makes my breath hitch, even after all these years. And yet, here I am, staring at the man I love more than anything, feeling like I might throw up.
Austin’s sitting across from me at our kitchen table, sleeves rolled up, jaw tight, the same expression he gets when he’s working through a complicated project in his head. Except this isn’t about work. This is about me. About us.
“I don’t know why you’re freaking out,” he says finally, setting his coffee down with a quiet clink. “You’re acting like I just told you I ran over your dog.”
“We don’t have a dog,” I say automatically, trying to stall.
“Exactly,” he deadpans. “So why do you look like you’re about to be sick?”
I swallow hard, gripping the edge of the table. “Because you’re asking me to marry you.”
He leans back, arms crossing over his broad chest, and that’s when I realise—I’ve hurt him. Not a lot. Not enough that anyone else would notice. But I do. I always do.
A few years ago, I would have ignored the pang of guilt, buried it under layers of sarcasm and self-preservation. But I’m not that person anymore. At least, I thought I wasn’t.
I drag in a breath, exhale slowly. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
Austin’s quiet for a beat, then sighs. “You do realise most people say yes when the person they love asks them to marry them, don’t you?”
“Yeah, well, most people aren’t me,” I mumble.
“No argument there,” he mutters under his breath as he rubs a hand over his face.
I bite my lip, my stomach twisting itself into knots. Because the truth is, I do want to marry him. I want everything with him. But a part of me—some small, broken part that still remembers what it was like to be without him—is terrified.
I don’t get happy endings. I get almosts. I get could-have-beens.
Well, I used to.
I push back my chair, stand on slightly unsteady legs, and walk around the table until I’m in front of him. He watches me carefully, like I might bolt at any second.
“I love you,” I say quietly. “And I want to marry you. It’s just . . . big. Huge. And for someone like me, it’s scary as hell.”
His face softens, and before I can spiral any further, he reaches for me, his hands sliding around my waist, grounding me.
“You are scary as hell,” he murmurs, a small smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “But I’m not going anywhere. So take a breath, overthink it for another five minutes if you need to, then say yes.”
I exhale shakily, searching his face, looking for something—reassurance, stability, proof that this isn’t some dream I’ll wake up from. But all I see is him. The man who has always been mine, even when I was too afraid to hold on.
I thread my fingers into his hair, tugging him closer. “I don’t need five minutes.”
“Yeah?” His voice is low, rough.
“Yeah.” I let out a breathless laugh, finally, finally letting myself have this. “It’s a yes.”
And when he kisses me, slow and deep, I know with absolute certainty, this time, I won’t let go.
A YEAR LATER
I HAVE NEVER HATED Austin more than I do right now.
And I say that as someone who once watched him flirt with a waitress right in front of me under the guise of being “friendly.” As someone who spent months crying over him, swearing I’d moved on while drinking an unholy amount of wine.
And also as that someone who, just eight hours ago, swore that labour “wouldn’t be that bad. ”
I was a moron.
Because this? This is hell.
“Oh my God, I am never letting you touch me again,” I hiss, gripping Austin’s hand so tightly I might actually break something. “I mean it. We’re done. I hope you enjoyed the last time because that was it.”
Austin, to his credit, does not point out that I said the same thing five contractions ago. He just nods, rubbing soothing circles into my back like that’s going to make me forget that I am being ripped apart from the inside out.
This baby is a, let’s say, happy surprise. We were in full on wedding planning mode when I found out I was three months pregnant. Needless to say, the wedding is now on hold for the foreseeable.
“Ok, baby,” Austin says, calm and steady. “Whatever you say.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You sound so patronising right now it's not even funny.”
He has the audacity to smile. “I’m agreeing with you.”
“Don’t,” I snap, breathing through another contraction. “I don’t want you to agree with me. I want you to suffer.”
A nurse chuckles beside me. “Almost there, Mia. You’re doing amazing.”
Amazing? No. Amazing is a strong word. I am surviving. Barely. And the only reason I haven’t climbed out of this bed and physically fought everyone in this room is because I am currently occupied pushing an entire human being out of a hole that should not be in any way used for this.
Austin kisses my sweaty temple, and for a second, I almost let it slide.
Almost.
But then another contraction slams through me, and I turn to glare at him. “Ahh, God, I hate you!”
He smiles again. “You’re doing so well, baby.”
“Oh, shut up—”
“Mia, deep breaths,” the midwife instructs. “You’re so close.”
I grip Austin’s hand again, squeezing with everything I have, and he winces this time, which is deeply satisfying.
“Ok, Mia, one more big push—”
I don’t even wait for her to finish. I push with everything I have left, a strangled scream tearing from my throat, but then I hear it . . . a sharp, wailing cry filling the room.
Everything goes still.
I collapse back against the pillows, my chest heaving, my body trembling. Tears burn my eyes, exhaustion pressing down on me like a weight.
And then they place her in my arms.
Tiny. Warm. Red-faced and furious, like she’s just as mad about this process as I was.
My heart—bruised, battered, broken a thousand times over—somehow still has room to crack open even more.
I let out a soft, choked laugh, brushing a shaking hand over her tiny cheek. “Hi, baby girl,” I whisper.
She makes a little hiccup sound, scrunching her little face up in protest, and I feel Austin press a kiss to my temple again—this time, I don’t snap at him.
This time, I lean into him.
“You did it,” he murmurs, his voice thick.
“We did it,” I correct, glancing up at him.
And Austin—calm, composed, always in control Austin—has tears in his eyes.
“I love you,” he says, voice rough with emotion. “Both of you.”
And even though I have spent hours cursing his name, even though I am never doing this again, even though I am exhausted to my bones, I smile. Because despite everything—despite all the pain, the heartbreak, the long, messy road that led us here—This? This is everything.
Austin disappears for a moment, and then he’s back, sitting beside me on the hospital bed, his arm wrapping around my shoulders as he stares down at our daughter like she’s the only thing in the world.
And honestly? Right now, she is.
“She’s perfect,” he murmurs, voice thick with something I can’t quite place. Awe. Love. Utter devastation in the best possible way.
I let out a watery laugh, because, yeah.
She is. Even though she’s still blotchy and a little squashed-looking.
Even though she screamed bloody murder the second she entered the world.
Even though I’m already convinced she has Austin’s stubborn streak and is going to make my life hell. She is perfect.
Austin reaches out, carefully brushing a fingertip over her impossibly tiny hand, and we both watch, frozen in breathless silence, as she curls her fingers around it. His breath hitches beside me.
And, because I am completely unhinged from the sheer exhaustion and overwhelming emotions of the past twelve hours—I burst into tears.
Austin’s head snaps up, alarm flashing across his face. “Hey, hey,” he soothes, shifting so he can wipe at my cheeks. “What’s wrong?”
“I just—” I sniff, staring down at the tiny, pink bundle in my arms, my vision swimming. “She’s so tiny.”
Austin lets out a soft chuckle, relief replacing the panic in his eyes. “Yeah, baby, that tends to happen with newborns.”
I shoot him a watery glare. “Don’t patronise me. I’m hormonal and fragile.”
“I know,” he says, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He presses another kiss to my temple, lingering there for a long moment. “You’re also the strongest person I’ve ever met.”
I let out a shaky breath, tilting my head to look at him. And for a second, I forget everything—forget the pain, the hours of labour, the fact that I literally swore off ever touching him again an hour ago.
Because all I can think about is how much I love him.
How much I love both of them.
“She’s going to have you wrapped around her little finger,” I murmur, smiling through my tears.
Austin scoffs. “That’s ridiculous, Jameson.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Really? You’re telling me if she looks up at you in five years and asks for a pony, you’re not going to buy one?”
Austin pauses.
I smirk. “Thought so.”
He sighs, shaking his head. “I’m so screwed, aren’t I?”
I lean my head against his shoulder, letting out a breath that feels like it’s been caught in my chest for years. “Yeah,” I whisper, staring down at the baby nestled against me. “But so am I.”
And for once—finally, finally—that doesn’t scare me.