He notices me looking at it. His hand covers mine, his thumb brushing the charm.
"You wear it every day," he says quietly.
"I do."
"I wasn't sure you would."
"Tyler. I haven't taken it off since you put it on me."
He doesn't say anything to that. Just holds my hand a little tighter against his stomach.
"This is okay, right?" he asks. "When it's just us?"
"This is more than okay."
We sit in comfortable silence for a while, just existing together in this new reality where we're allowed to touch, allowed to be close, allowed to love each other out loud.
"Tell me about the future," Tyler says quietly. "When we don't have to hide this anymore. What does that look like?"
"You really want to know?"
"I really want to know."
I close my eyes, letting myself imagine it. "We tell Emma. She probably already knows, but we make it official. Then everyone else. And I stop calling myself the nanny."
"What do you call yourself?"
"I don't know. Your girlfriend? Your partner?" I shrug. "Whatever feels right."
"My girlfriend." He tests the word out. "I like that. Nora Collins, my girlfriend. Future mother of my children."
I sit up, looking at him. "Future, what?"
"Too much?" But he's smiling, completely unrepentant.
"We literally just admitted we're together like twenty minutes ago, and you're already thinking about more kids?"
"I've been thinking about forever with you for weeks, Red. Harper needs siblings eventually, right?"
My heart is racing, but it's not fear. It's hope. "You're serious."
"Dead serious. I'm in love with you, Red. I'm thinking long-term here. I’m not saying we get married tomorrow or have a baby next year. I'm just saying that when I think about my future, you're in it. You, Harper, and maybe a couple more little ones down the line. That's what I see."
I stare at him for a long moment, and then I realize: I see that too. "I see that too," I whisper. "When I let myself think about it."
"Then let yourself think about it." He pulls me back against him. "Because that's where we're heading, Red. Maybe not today, maybe not next month. But eventually."
"Eventually," I agree; the word feels like a promise.
We talk for hours after that, curled up together on the couch, planning a future that feels both impossibly far away and closeenough to touch. Tyler tells me about wanting to buy a house, a real one, not a rental. Somewhere with a yard for Harper to play in, and space for her to grow.
I tell him about wanting stability, about being terrified of getting attached only to lose everything again. He listens without judgment, just holds me tighter, and promises me again that he's not going anywhere.
"We're going to make this work," he says firmly. "All of it. The hiding, the waiting, the eventually. We're going to make it work because what we have is worth fighting for."
Around midnight, Harper starts fussing over the monitor. We both move automatically, heading upstairs together, but Tyler pauses at the nursery door.
"Should we—I mean, do we both go in? Or is that?—"