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I brushed my thumb over her jaw. “I know we can.”
Later that night, we curled up on the couch, Scarlett nestled against my chest as I traced slow circles along her back.
“So,” she murmured. “Are we telling people, or keeping it to ourselves for a while?”
I smirked. “I already told my family.”
Scarlett gasped, shoving me lightly. “You did not.”
I laughed, catching her wrist and pulling her back into me. “I did. And my sister’s already planning a celebration.”
Scarlett groaned. “Christian…”
“You love my family,” I reminded her.
“I do,” she admitted. “But they’re going to make this a thing.”
I kissed the top of her head. “That’s the point.”
Scarlett sighed, but I felt the way she relaxed against me, the way her fingers absentmindedly traced the buttons of my shirt.
“Okay,” she murmured. “A small celebration.”
My grin widened. “I’ll let them know.”
Scarlett rolled her eyes, but there was warmth there.
I carried Scarlett over the threshold of our new home, and she huffed, smacking my shoulder. “I can walk, you know.”
I smirked, holding her tighter. “Where’s the romance in that?”
She rolled her eyes but let out a soft laugh, the sound easing something deep in my chest. After everything we’d been through—the sabotage, the fights, the distance—we were here. Together. Stronger.
I set her down gently in the foyer, watching as she took in the space. The open floor plan, the warm lighting, the carefully chosen touches that made this house feel like us.
Scarlett turned, her eyes shining. “It’s perfect.”
I reached for her, my hands settling on her waist. “We made it perfect.”
She smiled, leaning into me, and for the first time in a long time, I felt something close to peace.
Moving in together should have felt like a big adjustment, but with Scarlett, it was seamless.
Mornings started with the scent of coffee and the warmth of her body curled into mine.
Evenings ended with her in my arms, both of us exhausted but content, discussing work, the baby, the life we were building.
Amélie was thriving again. Scarlett had thrown herself into it, reclaiming what was hers with a fire I hadn’t seen in months.
And I was right there beside her, making sure no one ever threatened her business—or her—again.
One night, as we sat on the couch, she curled against me, I brought up an idea that had been simmering in the back of my mind.
“We should open another Amélie.”
She looked up, brow furrowed. “We are opening another one.”
“I mean international.”