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Later, after Jake is busy sketching plans for his imaginary backyard rink with Spotty sprawled across his feet, Beck and I end up sitting at the big wooden kitchen table.

Two mugs of tea between us.

The sun slanting low through the window.

He watches me like he already knows every thought spinning in my head.

“When I turned them down, you know,” he says quietly.

His smile is soft. “I didn’t even hesitate.”

“No?”

He leans back, his gaze never leaving mine.

“Because no paycheck, no championship, no front-row glory matters if I’m coming home to an empty house.”

He pauses. “And this place? It was never meant to be just mine. It’sours, Abby. If you want it.”

Oh, my heart. I swallow hard. “You scare me,” I admit quietly.

His brow furrows. “Me?”

“You,” I nod. “Because you might actually be everything that I had stopped believing in.”

Beck exhales a laugh — a little shaky. “Good.”

My eyes narrow. “Good?”

He reaches across the table, curling his hand around mine.

“Because you scare me too, Abby Price. You make me want forever.”

And I lose it. Right there.

Tears flowing, I round the table and practically fall into his lap, curling into his chest like I belong there — because maybe I do.

Definitely, I do.

***

By the time Beck suggests we stay for dinner, I’m already undone.

“You okay with grilled cheese and soup?” he asks casually, like he hasn’t just rocked my whole world with this place.

“Perfect,” I manage, though my heart is nowhere near calm.

Jake is thrilled — he and Spotty disappear outside to explore, Beck trailing after them to toss a ball for the dog like he’s been doing this for years.

And me?

I’m left wandering the farmhouse — this space so deeplyhim— but somehow alreadyourstoo.

On the kitchen counter, there’s a worn recipe card in Beck’s handwriting that reads:

Mom’s Sunday Soup — tastes like home.

It undoes me all over again.