Page 66 of Small Town Daddy

A cozy nook, framed by curtains strung on delicate rods. Inside was a beanbag chair, a little lamp shaped like a star, and a basket overflowing with picture books.

"Story time," I choked out, the word sticking in my throat. Tears blurred my vision. I blinked hard, but they spilled over anyway, hot streaks down my cheeks.

"Hey," he said softly, stepping closer. His thumb brushed away a tear, gentle enough to make me cry harder.

"How... how did you do all this? You bought all this stuff, smuggled it in?” My voice wavered, breaking apart like glass.

He shrugged, but the way his hand lingered on my cheek told me this wasn’t casual for him. Not even close. "I’d do anything for you, sweetheart. Even smuggle toys inside building supply packages."

"Marcus . . ." It was all I could say. All I could feel.

"Do you like it?" He looked nervous, more than I’d ever seen him. Vulnerable, even.

"Like it?" I let out a shaky laugh, clutching Mr. Whiskers tighter. "It’s perfect. It’s . . . God, Marcus, it’s everything. A nursery. Just for me."

“For us,” he corrected.

I turned back to the room, taking it all in again. Every little detail screamedyou matter. That I was seen. Known. Loved.

"Thank you," I whispered.

"Don’t thank me yet," he said, his lips twitching into a faint smile. "There’s more."

I turned back to him, gripping Mr. Whiskers so tight my knuckles ached. The room already felt like stepping into something sacred, something carved out of my dreams. What more could there be?

"Come here," he said, holding out his hand. His palm looked rough, sawdust still clinging to the creases, but it was steady. Solid. Like it always was.

I took it, my fingers trembling against his. He led me toward the rocking chair—mychair now, I realized, the one that pulled memories of my mom’s lullabies from the far corners of my mind—and stopped just short of it. His thumb brushed over mine as he turned to face me again, those piercing blue eyes softening in a way they rarely did.

"Lucy," he started, then paused. His jaw tightened, like the words were harder to say than the hours he’d spent building thisspace. "You’ve got your writing room downstairs. Your world, your rules."

"Yeah. . ." I breathed, unsure where he was going but unwilling to interrupt.

"This," he gestured around us, his arm sweeping wide, "this isyourplace too. Just different. A place where you don’t have to think, or push yourself. Where you can just be Little. Safe. Seen. Small."

"Marcus. . ." My chest squeezed, words tangling up in my throat.

"Every detail," he pressed on, his hand tightening around mine. "The colors, the lights, the stuffed animals. It’s not random, Lucy. This isn’t just decorating. This is me giving you what you deserve—what you need. A space where you don’t have to apologize for any part of you. Ever."

"God," I whispered, clutching Mr. Whiskers tighter, like the old bear might keep me from floating away altogether.

"Do you get it now?" His voice had a little edge, not angry but intense. Like he needed me to understand this wasn’t about him. "This is yours. Like your writing room, but for the part of you that doesn’t have to do anything. No deadlines, no expectations. Just you."

I nodded, swallowing hard, but he didn’t let me off the hook that easy.

"Say it," he murmured.

"It’s mine," I managed, though the words came out watery. I blinked fast, trying to keep it together, but damn it, he knew me too well.

"Good girl," he said, soft but firm, and the praise sent warmth rushing through me, grounding me even as my knees went weak.

I stepped away, needing a second to breathe without his intensity washing over me, and wandered toward the corner by the window. That’s when I saw it—the clock.

"Wait," I said, stopping dead. "Is that . . . ?"

"Yeah." His grin was crooked, boyish. Proud.

It was a smaller version of the grandfather clock in the hallway downstairs, but this one was different. Whimsical. The numbers swirled in odd directions, painted in bright colors that reminded me of carnival rides and bedtime stories. Tiny stars and moons framed the face, catching the light in a delicate shimmer.

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