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She nods and writes something down.

“I like that,” she says.

“And keep yer mind open. We don’t have ta decide everything this second.”

She tilts her head. “Okay. So then let’s talk about where we live. Because I always assumed Boston. But you?—”

“Scotland,” I say automatically.

There’s a pause. A weighty, ankle-deep silence that tells me I’ve stepped in it.

Again.

I scramble. “I just meant–it’s where I grew up. Where my folks are. Ma old neighborhood, where the game started. It’s… ach, love, it’s home. But that doesna mean I want ta drag ye across the ocean like some Victorian husband, with a trunk of clothes and a sheep.”

She snorts. “I am a little woolly today.”

“Beautifully so,” I add quickly.

She eyes me. “We’re not fighting. I’m not mad. But I want us to be clear about what we both want, and not just default to what’s familiar.”

There it is. The thing she always does. Slides a scalpel right between my defenses, surgical and soft, and makes me pay attention .

I look at her. At her face, flushed from hot tea and candor. At her hands, tucked under her thighs. At the tiny crease between her eyebrows that only shows up when she’s pretending not to worry about something that absolutely worries her.

I take a breath.

“I want ta be wherever ye are,” I say. “Truly. If that means Boston, or Maine, or... I dunno, that weird compound your cousin built for her goat therapy commune, so be it.”

“That was Indiana,” she says. “And it was llamas. Also there were crystals.”

“Fine. Llamas and crystals. As long as you’re there.”

She smiles, then: “We should probably talk about money, too.”

I groan. “I knew it.”

“You knew what?”

“That once ye start with kids and future talk, the spreadsheets come out.”

“I don’t have a spreadsheet—yet.”

“You’re a liar and a control freak and I adore ye.”

“I don’t want your money,” she says, a little too quickly.

“I just want to know what we’re working with.

What you’ve saved, what I’ve saved, what we spend.

What we’d need for childcare and maternity leave.

What your insurance covers. What my job might change into–whether freelancing is a pipe dream or just something I’m scared to pursue. ”

It’s a lot, but it’s her.

And she’s not grilling me. She’s offering a map.

I shift, reach out, cup the back of her neck, pull her close until our foreheads touch.

“Ye already ken most of it. But I’ll show ye everything,” I whisper. “Ma bank accounts. Ma investments. Ma Netflix password. Ma FIFA points.”

She bursts out laughing.

“And if you want ta build a prenup,” I say, “we build it together. Or no prenup. We can decide together. I don’t want any part of our life feelin’ like a power imbalance. I want ta feel equal. Even when ma leg says otherwise.”

She kisses my jaw, and I close my eyes.

“I want all of it with you,” I murmur.

She sighs. Soft. Happy. “You’re right. Emotionally evolved horndog.”

"But I’m your horndog. Ye ken what we need right now?" I ask, hand going to her arse. Some women would take that as a hint to move to the bedroom–or the chair and dining table–but not Amy.

She looks at the clock, slaps her thighs, and stands.

"Right! A walk."

"A walk? Nae, a ride," I insist, but she turns firm.

Join the club, Amy.

"You know what Brandi said. Long, slow walks build the smaller muscles around the knee. We're losing light, so come on, Sir Scrunchalot."

I groan. "I knew tellin' ye the truth was a mistake."

So we head out for a walk, slow and careful, like I’m recovering from a duel rather than orthopedic surgery.

Which, to be fair, I sort of am. Blavek has finished serving his suspension and paid a fine, but I'm out for the entire season. Life isn't fair.

The streets of the North End are cobbled in places and uneven, but stupidly beautiful, like they were designed by a tourism board with a vengeance.

Window boxes overflow with flowers that match the paint on the shutters.

Someone’s roasting garlic nearby. A preschooler zips past us on a scooter yelling something about banana bread.

The buildings lean into each other like old friends whispering secrets, and the whole neighborhood smells like espresso, church, and gossip.

Reminds me a bit of home. More money here, and a lot more noise, but there’s a contentment, a sense of belonging that I like.

Like very much.

Amy walks beside me, steady, hands in her jacket pockets. Her ponytail bounces with each step, and I hobble beside her, trying not to resemble an enthusiastic zombie who’s trying to impress a girl out of his league.

“Ye sure we need ta do the stairs?” I ask as we descend into a sun-dappled little brick square near a bakery that could trigger a full carbohydrate relapse just by breathing.

“It’s one and a half steps.”

“Which is one and a half too many for this heroic but beaten-up limb.”

“You’re such a drama queen.”

“Ye married me.”

“We’re not married yet .” She waggles her ring finger at me, the late sun catching the diamond. I never tire of watching my ring on that hand.

“Technicality.”

We turn the corner just as I’m launching into a long and factually incorrect story about how I once scored a hat trick while actively concussed, when I spot them.

Katie and Patrick Cooper.

Boston’s most functional couple, walking in harmony like they’ve figured out how to solve life’s problems with matching wool coats and emotional maturity.

Patrick is pushing a buggy. Inside is their toddler, who’s chewing on the tail of a stuffed fox and kicking rhythmically against the footrest like she’s training for pre-preschool MMA.

Amy beams and waves. “Hi!”

Patrick lifts a hand. Katie grins.

“Out for a constitutional?” she asks, like we’re the kind of people who wear vests and collect antique quill pens.

“Aye,” I say. “I’m trainin’ for the marathon.”

Katie smirks. “Is extreme limping a category?”

“It’s an elite level.”

From the buggy comes a sound that might be a greeting or a challenge. I crouch carefully, inching downward with the grace of a rusted-out robot, until I’m eye level with her.

“Hamish, this is Annabel,” Katie says.

“Well, now,” I say softly. “Hello, Annabel. Heard ye run this city.”

She stares at me for a moment, evaluating. Then she solemnly hands me the fox.

“This is an honor,” I whisper.

“You okay down there?” Amy asks.

“Yes. I live here now. My hips have declared independence.”

Patrick chuckles. “Want a hand?”

“A rope, if ye have one. Or a winch.”

Amy takes my arm and hauls me upright with the strength of a woman who deadlifts crisis for a living. Annabel reaches up for her stuffie and I hand it over, of course.

As I regain verticality, Katie shakes her head. “You both look good. Relaxed.”

“We were. Until the email came this morning,” Amy says wryly, turning the conversation to the wedding.

And our mothers.

Patrick raises an eyebrow. I wish we could raise a pint.

Katie sighs. “Let me guess—more hijinks from the momzill - the moms?”

“Mom’s decided to write our vows for us,” Amy says. “In iambic pentameter.”

"At least it's no' limericks," Hamish jokes.

Katie winces. “That’s less of a boundary and more of a whole new country.”

“And ma Mum,” I say grimly, “has mailed a box of ‘ancestral dirt’ from the McCormick family plot in Dunoon. Wants us to give it to Marie to take to whatever florist she picks out, to show them how superior Scottish soil is.”

Patrick covers a laugh.

Katie just nods, like this scans.

“Last week,” she says to Amy, “your mom called our office to ask if a ‘traditional kilted sword fight’ between Hamish and your father could be added to the ceremony schedule. For authenticity.”

“She said it was symbolic,” Amy adds.

“And for blood bonding,” Katie adds. “And that if there was no blood, it didn’t count.”

There’s a beat, and then we all crack up.

Patrick's chuckle is good-natured, low and deep. "I feel like the best father ever now, thinking back on Mia's wedding."

"Mia?" I ask politely. "Annabel has a sister?" The way Patrick and Katie glance at each other tells me I've accidentally wandered into awkward, but familiar, territory.

"Yes. Mia is much older. Married and she's planning kids with her husband now. My late wife would have loved being a grandmother," he says softly, wrapping an arm around Katie's waist.

"Ah, I see. Didna mean ta make it weird. Sorry."

He shakes his head. "Not weird. Thanks. Life gave me a whole new chapter and now I'm in my mid-fifties changing diapers. And loving it."

Patrick scoops up Annabel, who’s now trying to lick the buggy wheel.

Katie adjusts her scarf, then looks at us both. “My offer still stands. If you need a clean getaway, we’ll help. I know a guy who can distract your mothers on two different continents.”

Annabel waves the fox’s soggy tail.

"Thank you," Amy says, giving her arm a squeeze. "We're not there yet, but..."

Katie smiles. “Just say the word. Love You, Maine is only a tank of gas and a well-placed decoy away.”

Amy and I exchange a glance.

Then she tugs my arm.

And I limp beside her as Katie and Patrick walk off, buggy bouncing ahead, toddler giggling, and the late afternoon sun slanting through the alley like a promise.

Something’s coming.

I can feel it in the leg.

Also the heart. But mostly the leg.