Six months of hiding, but also searching.

For myself. For my future.

And somehow, along the way, I found him. I found love. The love of my life—Atlas Timberbridge.

Now, we have a home. Not an apartment on top of our business. Not a temporary hideout. A real home.

The house we bought is close to Atlas’s favorite lake, tucked in a place that feels untouched, quiet like a secret only we know. It’s the same spot he used to escape to when he needed to breathe. When the Timberbridge name felt more like a burden than a bloodline.

And now, it’s ours.

This home is everything I never thought I wanted and more.

Atlas is across the room that will become the nursery, screwdriver in one hand, eyeing the half-built crib like it personally offended him. The pieces are scattered across the wooden floor, the instructions crumpled beside him.

I bite my lip to keep from laughing. He insists on doing everything himself for our daughter. Sanford reminded him that the concierge who helped us furnish the house could hire someone to create the perfect nursery, but he insists we do it ourselves.

On the wall behind him, there’s my own little hell. I’ve painted different squares trying to decide what color I want this room to be—sage, yellow, gray, mauve, and a lilac that is so peaceful it might be the winner. Though I haven’t made up my mind, all the nonsense colors are driving Atlas insane.

Atlas exhales slowly, tilting his head at the wall like the color selection is what’s keeping him from figuring out the crib.

“Do you need help?” I ask, trying to keep the amusement out of my voice.

He glances at me, then at the crib, then back again. “No. This is fine.”

“You might want to follow the instructions,” I tease.

“It’s not about the crib,” he says, a little irritated. “There are too many colors,” he mutters, scowling at the wall. “I can’t concentrate.”

I laugh. I can’t help it. “Indulge me.”

“I told you, if you want, I can paint a mural,” he offers, waving the screwdriver at the wall like it’s a brush. “Something unique. A scene. But you have to make a decision.”

I pause. Because that’s actually tempting.

“What kind of scene?”

He shrugs. “Something peaceful. Something that feels like . . . us. A garden, a zoo . . . I’m not sure, what do you want, baby?”

I glance at the wall again. “What about a night sky? Stars, constellations. A full moon on one side and then on the other the lake with flowers and bunnies and . . . something peaceful and pretty.”

Atlas hums, considering. “That could work. We could add an owl or something for her. Like a guardian watching over her.”

A smile tugs at my lips. “You want our daughter’s room to have a guardian owl?”