Page 26 of His Best Friend’s Heat

Epilogue - Micah

Eighteen months later

"Emma Rose Keller, what do you have in your mouth?"

I swoop down to intercept our nine-month-old daughter, who's sitting in the middle of our living room surrounded by packing boxes and looking far too pleased with herself. She opens her mouth to show me a wad of packing tape, grinning like she's just discovered the secret to world peace.

"No, baby girl. That's not food." I carefully extract the tape while she protests with an indignant squawk that sounds exactly like Nick when he's been told he can't have ice cream for breakfast.

"She's helping," Nick says from across the room, where he's attempting to disassemble our bookshelf while Emma's stuffed elephant—aptly named Peanut—supervises from his pocket. "Very thorough quality control."

"She's going to poison herself with packing materials," I correct, but I'm smiling as I say it. Emma immediately crawls toward the nearest box, determined to resume her inspection duties.

Our first apartment—the one where we accidentally fell in love and figured out how to be a family—is barely recognizable under the chaos of moving day.

Boxes labeled in Nick's terrible handwriting are stacked everywhere: "Kitchen Stuff," "Micah's Medical Books (Heavy!)," and my personal favorite, "Random Crap - Deal With Later. "

"I can't believe we accumulated this much stuff," I say, surveying the damage. When I moved in here twenty months ago, everything I owned fit in my ancient Honda. Now we need a moving truck.

"That's what happens when you become three people instead of one," Nick points out, holding up a tiny pink onesie that Emma outgrew months ago. "Remember when she could actually fit in this?"

The nostalgia in his voice makes my chest warm.

Nick has turned out to be exactly the kind of father I always suspected he would be—completely smitten, mildly overprotective, and utterly baffled by how fast everything changes.

Last week he spent twenty minutes staring at Emma's old newborn photos, muttering about how she used to be "so tiny" and "where did the time go? "

"She was never that small," I tease, rescuing a framed photo of the three of us from Emma's exploring hands. It's from the hospital, taken maybe an hour after she was born—Nick holding her like she might break, both of us looking exhausted and amazed and completely overwhelmed.

"She was! Look at this!" He holds up a newborn diaper for comparison to the size Emma wears now. "She was like a tiny, wrinkly alien. Now she's..." He gestures helplessly at our daughter, who has successfully opened a box of books and is now methodically pulling them out one by one.

"A tiny, mobile tornado," I finish, moving to stop her before she gives herself a concussion with my pathophysiology textbook.

"Exactly." Nick grins, abandoning the bookshelf to scoop Emma up before she can cause any real damage. "But our tiny, mobile tornado."

Emma immediately starts babbling at him in the complicated language of toddlerhood—half sounds that might be words, half pure gibberish, all delivered with the utmost seriousness. Nick responds with equal gravity, nodding along like she's explaining quantum physics.

"She says the boxes are too slow and we should just stay here," he translates solemnly.

"She does not say that."

"She might. Her communication skills are expanding rapidly."

As if to prove his point, Emma points at me and says, very clearly, "Da-da!"

Both Nick and I freeze. She's been saying "Ba-ba" for Nick for months—her version of Papa that makes him melt every single time—but this is new.

"Did she just—" Nick starts.

"She did." I reach for her, and she comes willingly, repeating "Dada, Dada" like she's proud of herself for figuring out this new word.

"We're both Da-da now, apparently," Nick says, looking delighted. "Very progressive of her."

"Or very confusing," I point out, but I'm smiling too.

Emma has always been creative with language.

Her first clear word was "Na-na" for Diana, followed closely by "Ba-ba" for Nick, and something that sounds like "Ki-ki" for the neighbor's cat she's obsessed with. Logic has never been her strong suit.

"I'll take it," Nick says, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Da-da number one and Da-da number two. We can work out the details later."

The doorbell rings, and Nick passes Emma back to me so he can answer it. I hear familiar voices in the hallway. Diana and Jason, arriving right on schedule with coffee and reinforcements.

"There's my grandbaby!" Diana's voice carries through the apartment as she enters, arms already outstretched for Emma. "And how is the prettiest girl in the world today?"

Emma lights up at the sight of her Na-na, reaching for her with grabby hands and launching into what I'm pretty sure is a detailed explanation of our morning's packing adventures. Diana listens with rapt attention, making appropriate responses to each babbled observation.

"She's reporting on our progress," I explain. "Very thorough oversight."

"Of course she is. Takes after her father, the responsible one," Diana says with a pointed look at Nick, who's helping Jason carry in what appears to be enough coffee for a small army.

"Hey, I'm responsible," Nick protests. "I remembered to pack Emma's diaper bag."

"After I reminded you three times," I add.

"Details."

Jason snorts, setting coffee and pastry boxes on our kitchen counter. "Some things never change. Remember when we were moving you into your first apartment after college? Nick forgot to pack until the night before."

"I was busy," Nick defends.

"You were hungover," Jason corrects. "From your own goodbye party that you threw for yourself."

"That party was a celebration of my independence and maturity."

"You played beer pong until two in the morning and then cried because you were going to miss Mom's cooking."

Diana laughs, bouncing Emma on her hip. "He called me at six AM asking if I could come make him pancakes 'one last time' before he moved out."

"You did make me pancakes," Nick points out.

"I did. And then I helped you pack because you'd done nothing but throw random clothes in a garbage bag."

I watch this familiar family dynamic play out—the gentle teasing, the obvious affection, the way they've all just seamlessly incorporated Emma into their routines.

Diana visits twice a week and babysits whenever we need it.

Jason brings Emma presents "just because" and spent last weekend teaching her to stack blocks.

Even Ryan, who was so confused by our relationship at first, lights up whenever he sees her.

We've built exactly what I dreamed of during those early, uncertain days—a family that includes all of us, biological and chosen, messily and imperfectly and completely.

"Speaking of packing," Diana says, settling Emma in her high chair with a piece of banana bread, "have you seen the new nursery yet?"

"Not the finished version," I admit. We've been to the new house several times, but the contractors only finished the nursery yesterday. "Nick keeps saying it's a surprise."

"It's not a surprise, exactly," Nick says, suddenly looking nervous. "It's just...I wanted it to be perfect before you saw it."

"It's perfect," I assure him. "Whatever you did, it's perfect."

"You haven't seen it yet."

"I don't need to. I trust you."

The simple statement makes Nick's expression soften, the same way it always does when I tell him I trust him. Eighteen months of daily proof, and he still seems surprised each time I demonstrate faith in his decisions.

"Come on," Jason says, clapping his hands together. "Let's get this show on the road. The moving truck will be here in two hours, and we've barely made a dent."

The next hour passes in a blur of organized chaos.

Diana entertains Emma while the rest of us pack and label and try to remember where we put the tape.

I find myself gravitating toward the small moments—Nick carefully wrapping the framed photo from our first official date, Jason discovering Emma's newborn hospital bracelet tucked inside a book, Diana finding the pregnancy test we'd forgotten we kept.

"You saved it?" she asks, holding up the little plastic stick.

"Nick did," I say, glancing at him. "I wanted to throw it away, but he said it was 'historically significant.'"

"It was the beginning of everything," Nick says, not even embarrassed. "Of course I kept it."

"You also kept the takeout menu from our first dinner together as a couple," I point out.

"That's also historically significant."

"It's Thai food, Nick."

"It's our Thai food."

Diana laughs, carefully wrapping the test in tissue paper. "Your father kept ticket stubs from our first movie date for thirty years. Some men are just sentimental."

"He's gotten worse since Emma," I confide. "He has a whole box of 'firsts.' First outfit she wore home from the hospital, first tooth she lost—which hasn't happened yet, by the way—first shoes she'll outgrow..."

"They're milestones!" Nick protests. "She's only going to be little once."

"She's going to be little for several more years, honey."

"But not this little. Look at her!"

We all turn to look at Emma, who has somehow managed to get banana bread in her hair despite being in a high chair specifically designed to prevent such disasters.

She notices our attention and grins, revealing her eight teeth and a mouthful of bread, babbling something that sounds very pleased with herself.

"Okay," I concede. "She's pretty perfect at this size."

"See?" Nick says triumphantly. "Historical significance."