Page 65 of Small Town Daddy

Thankfully, Emily now had the help she needed. She was in an alcohol program, staying with her parents. And I was working on forgiving her for doing what she did.

"Yeah, but we figured it out." I reached across the table, touching his hand. "Because you didn’t give up on me. Even when I tried to push you away."

"Never planned to," he said simply, flipping his palm to lace his fingers with mine.

"Well, I’m glad you didn’t." My voice dropped, quiet but steady. "Because you . . . you see me. All of me. And you don’t think I’m broken or weird or—"

"Lucy." His tone was firm, cutting through the self-deprecation I hadn’t even realized was creeping in. "I don’t want to hear anything about you being broken or weird. You’re perfect. Every piece of you. Don’t ever doubt that."

I swallowed hard, blinking fast. Damn him and his way of saying exactly what I needed to hear.

"Okay," I whispered.

"Okay." He squeezed my hand once, then let go to start clearing the plates.

After dinner, I followed him into the living room, expecting our usual routine: couch, TV, maybe some cuddling if I played my cards right. But Marcus didn’t sit. Instead, he stood by the doorway, shifting from foot to foot like he couldn’t decide whether to move or stay put.

"Marcus?" I prompted, cocking my head. "You okay?"

"Yeah." His voice was rough, clipped. "Just . . . come with me, okay? There’s something I want to show you."

"Marcus, what—"

"Just trust me," he said, his tone softer now, coaxing.

And because I always did, I followed him.

Marcus’s palm was warm against the small of my back as he guided me down the hall. Mr. Whiskers sat snug in the crook of my elbow, his fur slightly matted from years of use. My heart thudded unevenly, each step up the creaky staircase a beat louder.

"Are you gonna tell me what this is about?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

"Not yet," Marcus said, his tone maddeningly calm, though the tightness around his jaw betrayed him.

We stopped outside the door to the mystery room. The one he’d been disappearing into for weeks, brushing off my questions with that infuriating grin. His hand dropped from my back, and he reached for the doorknob, pausing just long enough to glance at me.

"Ready?"

"Depends," I quipped, but my chest tightened.

He pushed the door open.

I gasped.

The air left my lungs in one sharp whoosh, and I clutched Mr. Whiskers like he might anchor me.

"Marcus . . ."

The room unfolded before me, soft and inviting, like stepping into a dream I didn’t even know I had. The walls were painted a familiar pale blue, the exact shade I’d come to love in the laundry room where we’d first connected. It felt like home, but also something entirely new.

A daybed sat against the far wall, piled high with plush blankets in soothing tones. Shelves lined another wall, packed tight with stuffed animals—bears, bunnies, cats, even a ridiculous-looking duck with a crooked beak. At their center was a rocking chair, its wooden arms worn smooth, and the soft cream-colored cushion looked so much like the one my mom used to have that it made my throat tighten.

"Marcus," I managed again, barely above a whisper.

"Keep looking," he murmured.

My feet moved without thought. String lights twinkled across the ceiling, casting a faint glow that softened every edge. A small craft table sat in one corner, colored pencils and paper neatly arranged like they were waiting for me. Beside it, a stack of books rested on a low shelf, their spines gleaming under the light.

But it was the far corner that undid me.

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