Page 49 of Wings
He nodded, hanging it back up without argument. "What about this?" The floral dress.
"Too little? Like I'm not taking it seriously?"
Another nod, another rejection. He understood. He always understood.
Then his hand stopped on a dark blue dress I'd barely noticed, pushed between louder choices. He pulled it out, holding it up with a certainty that brooked no argument.
"This one," he said, voice gentle but firm. "I want to see you in this."
The dress was simple but elegant—navy blue that would make my eyes pop, with a sweetheart neckline and a skirt that would hit just above my knees. Modest but pretty. Sophisticated but soft. Something a cherished girl would wear to dinner with her Daddy.
"You're sure?" I asked, taking it with careful hands.
"Very sure." He stepped closer, backing me against the closet door. "Want to see my baby girl feeling beautiful. Want everyone in that restaurant to know you're mine."
My breath caught. "Everyone?"
"Everyone." He braced his hands on either side of my head, caging me in without touching. "The waiter who's going to flirt with you until he sees how you look at me. The couples who'll wonder what I did to deserve you. Every single person who'll see us and know you're treasured."
"Gabe," I breathed, overwhelmed.
"Get dressed," he ordered softly, pressing a kiss to my forehead before stepping back. "I'll wait in the living room."
After he left, I stood there clutching the dress, heart racing. This was real. We were doing this. Going out into the world as Daddy and baby girl—not that anyone would know that part, but we would. That secret knowledge, that private dynamic playing out in public, sent heat through my entire body.
I changed slowly, savoring the transformation. Off came his stolen t-shirt and my ratty sleep shorts. On went the matching underwear set he'd bought—pale blue lace that made me feel delicate and desired. The dress slipped over my head like water, settling against my skin with a whisper.
When I looked in the mirror, I almost didn't recognize myself. The girl staring back wasn't the exhausted nurse who'd worked herself to the bone. Wasn't the terrified ex-girlfriend who'd changed her name and hidden for three years. This girl looked . . . cared for. Cherished. Like someone worth taking to dinner and showing off.
I touched the collar visible above the neckline. Such a simple thing—silver butterfly at my throat—but it changed everything. Marked me as belonging to someone who saw all of me and wanted me anyway. The scared parts and the little parts and the competent nurse parts. All of it.
"You're allowed to have this," I told my reflection. "You're allowed to be happy."
Verona's sat tucked between a bookstore and a vintage clothing shop, the kind of place you'd walk past without noticing unless you knew to look. Soft light spilled through windows draped with sheer curtains, and the name was etched in gold script so delicate it looked handwritten. Gabe's hand was warm on my lower back as he guided me through the door, and I tried not to think about how many exits there were. Old habits.
Inside, the restaurant wrapped around us like a warm embrace. Exposed brick walls, candlelit tables with actual white tablecloths, the soft clink of real silverware against china. A hostess in a black dress that made me feel underdressed smiled at Gabe like she knew him.
"Mr. Moreno, so lovely to see you again. Your usual table?"
He had a usual table. Of course he did. The Gabe I'd known at seventeen wouldn't have known what fork to use first, but this Wings—Daddy—moved through the world with quiet confidence that made my knees weak.
"Thank you, Maria," he said, then to me, "You'll love the view."
She led us to a corner booth that somehow felt private despite the bustling dining room. The promised view was of a small courtyard garden, lit with string lights that turned everything golden. Gabe helped me slide in, then surprised me by sitting beside me instead of across.
"Want to be close to you," he murmured when I looked at him questioningly. "That okay?"
More than okay. Under the tablecloth, his hand found my knee, thumb stroking absent circles through the fabric of my dress. Such a simple touch, but it grounded me, reminded me I was safe.
"Wine?" he asked, then caught himself. "Wait. You're probably exhausted from your shift. Would you rather—"
"Wine sounds perfect," I interrupted, touched that he was thinking about my needs even now. "Something sweet?"
He ordered something in Italian that made the waiter nod approvingly before disappearing. Then his attention was entirely on me, those hazel eyes taking in everything from my carefully styled hair to the way I kept touching the collar.
"You look beautiful," he said simply. "Worth the wait."
"The wait?"
