Page 63 of Small Town Daddy

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 youdothat?" 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 betweenItandCarrie. 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 beyondsaving, 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 evenlikethis 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 italways 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."

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