Page 33 of Once Upon A Second Chance (Once Upon A Time…To Happily Ever After #2)

Penny

The clinic smells like autumn and bleach.

Someone must’ve brought in one of those cinnamon broomsticks and tucked it behind the supply cabinet, because every time I walk down the hallway, it’s like being politely assaulted by a haunted craft store.

I don’t mind it, really. It’s comforting in a strange way—like the scent is trying to remind me we’re all still moving forward through seasons, even when everything else feels like it’s holding its breath.

Lena leans against the doorframe of the break room, sipping her iced coffee with the kind of slow dramatic flair that says she’s gearing up for a conversation I’m not going to enjoy.

“So,” she starts, stretching the word into three syllables. “You’re going to the park with Richard after work?”

I nod, digging through the fridge for the yogurt I keep forgetting to eat.

“Just the two of you?”

“Yes.”

“Picnic basket involved?”

“...Yes.”

She raises her eyebrows over the rim of her straw. “And you don’t think he’s going to propose?”

I freeze, hand halfway to the drawer for a spoon. “Of course not. That’s not—no. We have rules.”

Lena snorts. “You’ve had rules since college. Half of which you’ve broken already. No more than two sleepovers a week? Out the window. No saying ‘I love you’ unless you mean it long-term? You both said it before week six.”

“Those are good rules,” I mutter, yanking open the drawer too hard.

“They were,” she says gently. “Back when you were scared of him breaking your heart again. But now… Penny, you’re having a baby with him.”

I don’t respond right away. I peel back the foil on the yogurt, suddenly hyper-aware of the way my stomach feels both full and hollow.

Lena crosses the room and sits beside me at the table, her voice softer now. “What if he’s not proposing because of the pregnancy? What if he’s proposing because he loves you, and the baby just makes him braver?”

I blink at the table for a moment, then shake my head. “We said we wouldn’t rush things. We agreed this would be slow, intentional. No pressure.”

“I think it still is,” she says. “Just maybe... the timeline moved. Not because of the baby. Because of how much you trust him now.”

I open my mouth to argue. Then close it.

Because she’s right.

I don’t flinch when my texts go unanswered for an hour. When I picture the future, it’s his hands on my belly, his name on emergency contact forms, his stupid laugh echoing in our kitchen.

I trusted him slowly, then all at once.

And I didn’t even notice the exact moment the wall came down.

By the time the workday ends, my nerves are buzzing and my hands keep fidgeting with my stethoscope cord. Lena winks at me as she clocks out, mouthing have fun in that way only best friends can get away with.

I’m packing up the last of my files when I hear a knock on the glass.

I look up to see him.

Richard.

He’s standing just outside the clinic doors, holding a worn canvas picnic basket in one hand, his jacket slung over his shoulder, and that half-smile he gets when he’s pretending not to be nervous.

My heart does that quiet squeeze thing that makes my breath catch.

I push open the door.

“You ready?” he asks, his voice low and warm.

I nod, lips curving. “Yeah. I’m ready.”

And for the first time, I realize I mean it in more ways than one.

The evening air is cool and soft, the sun just beginning its slow descent behind the hills. A few gold-edged clouds drift lazily overhead, casting long, painterly shadows across the town as Richard and I walk toward the park.

The quiet between us is easy. Not strained. Just the kind of silence that forms when everything you need is already understood.

He’s carrying the picnic basket in one hand and has his other loosely tucked into his jacket pocket. I don’t know what’s in the basket—he wouldn’t let me peek—but whatever it is smells warm and faintly herb-y, like rosemary and butter and something slow-cooked with care.

We pass a few kids biking up the sidewalk, their laughter echoing between the low trees lining the street. I watch them fly past, hair wild in the breeze, and something about it stirs a thought I didn’t expect to voice aloud.

“I think I want to visit New York sometime,” I say, keeping my gaze forward.

Richard looks over, surprised. “Yeah?”

I nod. “Not to live there. But... eventually…to visit. I think I want to see where you lived. Where you worked. What your life looked like before all this.”

He doesn’t respond right away, and for a heartbeat I wonder if I pushed too far, too soon. But then he exhales and smiles—small, genuine.

“I’d like that,” he says. “I’ve always wanted you to see it. Just... didn’t know if you’d want to.”

“I didn’t,” I admit. “Not before. It felt like a place that took you away from me. But now... I think I want to meet that part of your story. If you’ll show me.”

He stops walking for just a second and leans down to kiss the top of my head. “Of course I’ll show you.”

We keep walking, our steps falling in sync as the path toward Willow Creek bends gently toward the tree line. The leaves are just starting to turn—soft gold and slow red along the edges—like the trees are thinking about changing but haven’t fully committed yet.

When we reach the park, the light is low and golden, brushing everything in that late-autumn glow that makes you feel nostalgic for things that haven’t even happened yet.

There’s a small overlook clearing near the top of the ridge, with a wooden bench and a little picnic table surrounded by tall oaks that cast flickering shadows across the grass.

Richard sets the basket down on the bench and starts unpacking it methodically. Cloth napkins. Mismatched cutlery. A still-warm thermos. A wide, shallow container of what looks like chicken with roasted vegetables and lemon wedges on the side.

I blink. “Wait. You cooked this?”

He gives me a sheepish look, tugging a folded towel off a second container. “Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“I may have… used Mrs. Delaney’s kitchen while I was checking in on her.”

I laugh. “You cooked dinner in a seventy-eight-year-old woman’s house?”

“She supervised,” he says quickly. “I did the chopping, she did the talking. Gave me verbal step-by-step instructions like it was a Food Network episode. Told me I was stirring wrong. Threatened to slap the back of my hand if I burned the garlic.”

I grin, already picturing it. “You’re kidding.”

“Dead serious. I think she also tried to get me to marry her granddaughter halfway through, but it’s possible she was just messing with me.”

I sit down on the blanket he’s just spread out and shake my head. “Only you would plan a romantic dinner with borrowed cookware and unsolicited sass from the town matriarch.”

“She said I should learn how to ‘cook properly before I go around proposing to women with real standards.’” He pauses just long enough for me to glance up, but his face gives away nothing.

Proposing.

He said the word casually, but it lands like a tiny spark tucked in kindling.

I look down at the plate he’s made for me, still warm, still fragrant, and suddenly I’m not just hungry—I’m full of something I don’t quite have a name for yet.

Gratitude, maybe.

Or love, freshly stirred.

We eat slowly, the sun dipping behind the trees in long, golden streaks, and I wonder—just briefly—if this is the part right before everything changes.

And if it is, I think I’m ready.

The food is nearly gone, and we’re both leaning back on our hands, legs stretched out toward the edge of the overlook.

The last of the sunlight is fading through the trees in slanted beams, dusting everything in gold like we’re sitting inside a memory that’s not finished forming yet.

Richard’s quiet beside me, unusually so. He’s watching the horizon like he’s waiting for something — maybe the right light, maybe the right words.

I glance over. “You okay?”

He nods, then smiles a little. It’s the kind of smile that pulls at the corners of his mouth slowly, like he’s not used to wearing it for long. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m better than okay. I’m just... scared, I think.”

I shift toward him, one leg folding under me. “Scared of what?”

“Of doing this wrong,” he says, eyes still on the horizon. “Of saying too much or not enough. Of not getting it right.”

I frown. “Getting what right?”

He finally turns toward me, his eyes steady and full of something deep and unguarded. “This. You. Me. Us.”

The wind picks up slightly, tugging at the edge of the blanket. I anchor it with my hand and stay very still, heart suddenly beating faster than I’d like.

“I’ve been thinking about what it means to show up for someone,” he says quietly. “Not just when it’s easy. Not just when it feels good. But when it’s quiet. When it’s hard. When there’s grief between you and forgiveness doesn’t come all at once.”

His gaze drops to my hands, folded in my lap. “I left before,” he says. “I broke something. And you let me come back. You didn’t have to. But you did.”

“Richard—” I start, but he shakes his head gently.

“Let me say this.”

I nod.

He shifts, pulling something from the picnic basket. A small box — not flashy, not polished. Just simple wood, smooth at the corners. He holds it loosely between his fingers, not opening it yet.

“I know we had rules,” he says, voice soft. “We needed them. Back then, they were the scaffolding we built so we didn’t collapse. So we could figure out who we were again, together.”

He looks up, and this time I see the shine in his eyes. It undoes something in my chest.

“But I broke one,” he says, a small, wry smile tugging at his mouth. “I fell in love with you all over again— too fast. I wanted too much. I started planning a future before I asked if it was okay to want one.”

I don’t say anything. I can’t. My throat is tight and my hands feel useless, and all I can do is listen.

“So I’m sorry,” he says. “For breaking the rule. But I’m not sorry for what I want.”

And then he opens the box.

Inside is a ring — not flashy or traditional, but perfect.

The simple solitaire diamond catches the light with quiet brilliance, its elegant clarity reflecting the pure, uncomplicated love we’ve found again in each other.

Richard takes a slow breath, his voice quieter now.

“I want to wake up next to you in every version of this life. I want to raise this baby with you — in chaos and joy and whatever the hell else comes our way. I want to be yours, completely and permanently and without hesitation. I want to call you my wife because you’ve been my home for years now and I’m ready to give that a name. ”

The world narrows to this moment.

The trees.

The fading sky.

His hands.

His voice.

“Will you marry me?” he asks.

And somewhere deep in my chest, something lets go.

For a moment, all I can hear is the sound of wind threading through the trees and the echo of his words still reverberating in the space between us.

He’s still kneeling, ring in hand, but not pushing. Not pleading. Just offering.

I stare at the ring, then up at him.

“I used to think,” I say, slowly, “that love meant losing myself.”

His expression shifts, something tightening just slightly, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“I thought if I gave too much, if I let someone too close, I’d disappear inside their orbit. And for a while, I did. After you left, it felt like I had to build a whole new version of myself just to breathe again.”

He nods, like he’s lived every second of that with me.

“And then you came back,” I whisper. “And I didn’t fall apart. I didn’t collapse. I didn’t disappear.”

I touch the corner of my eye, blinking hard. “Instead, I… softened. In ways I didn’t expect. In places I thought were hardened for good.”

Richard still doesn’t move. His hand is steady, holding everything out in the open.

“I said I wanted rules,” I continue, “but I think what I really wanted was safety. A promise that if I let myself hope again, I wouldn’t be punished for it.”

I look at him fully now—this man who’s been broken and humbled, who brings me yogurt when I’m nauseous and cooks meals in the kitchens of elderly women and kisses me like I’m not a risk but a vow.

“You’ve already given me that promise. In every word, every apology, every minute you’ve shown up. You kept showing up, even when I wasn’t ready. Even when I was scared.”

A breath catches in my throat. My heart swells until it aches.

“So yes,” I say. “Yes, I will marry you. Not because of the baby. Not because it’s what comes next. But because I want you. For always.”

He exhales sharply—like he’s been holding his breath for weeks—and then he smiles, wide and open and heartbreakingly tender. He slides the ring gently onto my finger, and it fits like it’s always been there.

Then he stands, and I rise with him, and the moment our mouths meet, the rest of the world vanishes.

It’s not a desperate kiss. It’s slow, reverent, full of everything we haven’t said and everything we have.

His hands cradle my face. Mine find the edges of his jacket. We breathe the same air, hearts pressed close enough to blur the space between us.

By the time we pull apart, the sun has fully slipped behind the horizon, leaving a dusky lavender glow in its wake.

And overhead, the moon shines bright and whole, like it’s been watching us all along.

We gather the blanket and the basket in silence, not rushing, not needing to speak.

When he takes my hand, I don’t even think. I just squeeze it once, sure and steady, and we walk home together beneath the stars to begin our new life together.

THE END