Page 67 of Small Town Daddy

"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 tokeep 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.

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