Page 178 of The Backup Plan

I glance at him. “For what?”

“For this,” he says. “Season ends. House is finished. Life decides to give us a second to breathe.”

I smile and lean against him, head on his shoulder. “True,” I murmur.

His words settle into my chest in that way that still surprises me—like love doesn’t knock anymore. It just lives here permanently.

He slides his arm around me and presses a kiss to my shoulder. “Fifteen months ago, I didn’t know if we were allowed to want this,” I say.

He squeezes me. “Two years ago, I didn’t know who I was without football defining me.”

“And now?”

“Now,” he says and I can hear the smile in his voice, “I coach. I come home. I get lectured about posture and hydration. I steal your coffee. I argue about tile samples.”

“Not anymore,” I laugh. “The tile is tiled. But c’mon, you loved arguing about the tile samples.”

“I loved winning the argument more.”

“Only because you loved what came after.” I hum in appreciation. “And I certainly did too.”

“I’m sure we can find other things to argue about and have make-up sex over now. The lawn’s not mowed. The trash is full.”

“Whatever.” I roll my eyes, push off him, and officially open our new front door.

The quiet inside hits us first.

This place has been hustle and bustle and noise and dust for months. Now? Nothing. Its quiet pulls us in and tempts us to leave the world outside behind us.

Lucas drops the bag he was holding by the door and looks around slowly, like he’s letting himself believe this is real.

“We actually did this,” he says again, softer this time.

I nod. “We tend to do things thoroughly.”

“Stubbornly,” he corrects.

“Same thing.”

We laugh and start walking through the house together, unhurried. We’ve walked these halls hundreds of times, but this is the first time we’re walking them to live here.

It feels so very different.

Lucas stops at the room off the kitchen. “This is going to be my office.”

I hum, noncommittal. I’ve already claimed my space with an incredible view of the backyard so he’s welcome to this one.

“Desk here. Film screen there. Whiteboard on that wall.” He gestures, already seeing it.

“I’m sure you’ll spend many hours in there.”

“And there will be a desk.” His eyebrows quirk up. His desk fantasy has been regularly fulfilled, but I have no doubt he’ll want to relive them on both of our desks when they arrive.

Not that I’ll mind at all.

We keep moving.

“Guest room,” he continues like a realtor as if I don’t know the house plan. “And another. Brendan already said as soon as we’re settled all four of them will be coming.”