Little Lucas recovered from his ear infection with the resilience typical of children his age. Within three days, he was back to his energetic self, tearing through the penthouse with boundless enthusiasm, as if making up for the time he'd spent listless and feverish. I had intended to return to my father's estate once our son was better, but somehow, the days stretched into week, and then two. The temporary arrangement took on a comfortable rhythm-Lucas and I trading off childcare responsibilities, sharing meals, navigating the domestic minutiae of raising a toddler together unde one roof. "I think he's actually sleeping better here," I observed one evening as we cleared away dinner dishes while ou son played contentedly with blocks on the living room floor. "No middle-of-the-night wake-ups all week." Lucas smiled, passing me a plate to dry. "Maybe he likes having both his parents around. Kids sense these things, you know." I'd been thinking the same thing, though I hadn't wanted to admit it. The past two weeks had shown me a different side of Lucas-not just the dedicated father I'd come to respect, but a partner in the truest sense of the word. He'd adjusted his work schedule to accommodate our son's routine, learned to prepare little Lucas' favorite meals, even mastered the complex bedtime ritual of stories, songs, and precise blanket arrangemen that our particular toddler demanded. More surprising was how easily we'd fallen into a partnership, our parenting styles complementing rather than conflicting. Where I tended to be cautious, Lucas encouraged adventure. Where he might have given in to another cookie or extra playtime, I provided necessary structure. Together, we balanced each other in way I hadn't anticipated. "I was thinking," Lucas said carefully, rinsing the last pot, "maybe you'd both like to stay. Not just temporarily, mean." I set down the dish towel, meeting his gaze directly. "Lucas-" "I know what you're going to say," he interrupted gently. "That it's too soon, that we're still figuring things out, that you need your own space. And I respect that, Autumn. I do. But these past weeks have been..." He paused, searching for the right words. "They've felt right. The three of us, together. Like a real family." The simple honesty in his voice, the vulnerability in his expression, made my carefully maintained defenses waver. I couldn't deny the truth in his words-the penthouse had felt more like a home in these two weeks than it ever had during our marriage. Our son was thriving with both parents present, and I... I was happier than I'd been in a very long time. "We should put him to bed," I said, not yet ready to address Lucas's unspoken proposal. "It's getting late." Lucas nodded, accepting the deflection without protest. "I'll get him ready if you want to pick out the books for tonight." The bedtime routine unfolded with practiced coordination-Lucas handling bath time while I laid out pajamas and prepared the nursery, then both of us taking turns reading stories until little Lucas's eyelids grew heavy. As our son finally drifted off to sleep, Lucas's hand found mine in the dimness of the nursery, a gesture so natural that I didn't immediately pull away. "He's perfect, isn't he?" Lucas whispered, gazing down at our sleeping child. "Completely," I agreed, feeling the familiar swell of love and wonder that still surprised me after more than a year of motherhood. We stood that way for several moments, hands linked, watching our son sleep. The simple intimacy of the moment-two parents united in love for their child-felt profound in its normalcy, in the rightness of it. "Come with me," Lucas said suddenly, tugging gently at my hand. "There's something I want to show you." Curious, I followed him from the nursery to the living room, where he retrieved a bottle of wine and two glasses. "The balcony," he explained, leading the way to the glass doors that opened onto the penthouse's private terrace. The night was unexpectedly mild for early spring, the city spread out below us in a tapestry of lights. Lucas poured wine into both glasses, handing one to me before settling into one of the cushioned chairs. 'Do you remember the last time we sat out here together?" he asked. I nodded, the memory vivid despite the time that had passed. "The night before our divorce. We watched the sunset." 'And then the stars came out," Lucas continued. "You were wearing that cream-colored sweater, the one with the loose neck that kept slipping off your shoulder." I looked at him, surprised by the specificity of his recollection. "You remember what I was wearing?" 'I remember everything about that night, Autumn." His voice had dropped lower, intimate in the darkness. "The way the wind kept blowing your hair across your face. How you tucked it behind your ear over and over. The exact moment you shivered and I suggested we go inside." The intensity of his gaze made my pulse quicken. "Lucas-" "I need to tell you something," he said, setting his wine glass aside. "Something I should have told you a long time ago." I waited, sensing the importance of whatever confession was coming. "That night-our last night together before the divorce-I wasn't drunk." The statement hung between us, its implications slowly registering. "What do you mean? You had at least three scotches. I saw you." Chapter 34 Heartfell Confession Lucas shook his head. "Two. And I poured most of the second one into a plant when you weren't looking. I wanted you to think I was more intoxicated than I was." "Why would you do that?" I asked, confusion and the first stirrings of anger coloring my voice. "Because I was a coward," he admitted, his expression raw with regret. "Because I knew I was in love with you had been falling for you for months, but I couldn't bring myself to say it sober. Couldn't risk you rejecting me, or worse, thinking I was trying to manipulate you into staying." I stared at him, struggling to process this revelation. "So you pretended to be drunk to... what? Have one last night with me before the divorce?" "No," Lucas leaned forward, his gaze intense. "To finally tell you the truth I'd been hiding even from myself. That what started as an arrangement, a marriage of convenience, had become the most real thing in my life. That somewhere between our wedding and our divorce, I'd fallen completely in love with you." My hand tightened around the stem of my wine glass. "If that was true, why didn't you stop the divorce? Why did you sign those papers the next morning?" "Because you wanted it," he said simply. "You were so determined, so certain it was the right thing. And after everything I'd put you through-the emotional distance, the fixation on Phoebe, the way I'd taken you for granted-how could I ask you to stay when you'd finally found the strength to leave?" The honesty in his voice, the genuine regret in his expression, made it impossible to dismiss his words as mere manipulation. This was Lucas stripped bare of pretense, of the careful control he'd maintained for so long. "When I woke up alone that morning," he continued, "I told myself it was for the best. That I'd had my moment of honesty, that you deserved to be free of me and the mess I'd made of our marriage. But then you disappeared, and all I could think about was finding you, telling you the truth-the whole truth, not just the par I'd managed to confess that night." "And what is the whole truth, Lucas?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. He rose from his chair, coming to kneel beside mine, his eyes level with mine. "That I love you, Autumn. Not because you're the mother of my child, though I'm grateful for that beyond words. Not because you're familia or convenient or what my grandfather wanted for me. But because you're you-stubborn and brilliant and kind, even when I didn't deserve your kindness." His hand found mine, warm and solid in the cool night air. "I love the way you scrunch your nose when you're concentrating on a design. I love how you hum Beatles songs under your breath when you think no one's listening. I love your unwavering loyalty to the people you care about, even when they've hurt you." Each detail, so specific, so personal, struck me with its authenticity. These weren't generic declarations of affection, but intimate observations accumulated over years of attention I hadn't realized he'd been paying. "Most of all," Lucas continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "I love that you've seen me at my worst- selfish, blind, taking you for granted-and still found something in me worth believing in. Worth giving a second chance." The raw vulnerability in his expression, the complete absence of the controlled facade he'd maintained for so long, touched something deep within me. This was a different Lucas than the one I'd married-a man who ha faced his flaws, who had learned to articulate feelings that once would have been too threatening to acknowledge. "I don't expect you to say it back," he said, reading the conflict in my expression. "I don't even expect you to believe me right away. All I'm asking for is a chance, Autumn. A real chance to show you that what I feel for you isn't new or convenient or because of our son. It's been growing for years, even when I was too blind to recognize it." I looked down at our joined hands, trying to process the magnitude of his confession. "Why tell me this now? After all this time?" "Because these past weeks-living together, raising our son, finding our way back to each other-have shown me what we could be. What we should have been from the beginning, if I hadn't been so caught up in my own issues that I couldn't see what was right in front of me." He lifted my hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to my knuckles. "And because I'm tired of wasting time, of maintaining careful distance when what I really want is to wake up beside you every morning, to raise our sor together, to build the family we both deserve." The sincerity in his voice, the earnestness in his eyes, made it impossible to doubt his feelings. Whatever Lucas Bailey had been in the past-oblivious, self-absorbed, fixated on a fantasy of freedom Phoebe had represented-the man kneeling before me now was different. Changed, not just by fatherhood or time, but by the hard-won self-awareness that comes from recognizing one's own blindness. "I need time," I said finally. "To think about everything you've said. To be sure." Lucas nodded, hope and patience mingling in his expression. "Take all the time you need. I'm not going anywhere, Autumn. Not this time. Not ever again." As he released my hand and moved back to his own chair, giving me the space I'd requested, I found myself studying him in the soft glow of the terrace lights. The strong profile I'd admired since high school. The hands that now cradled our son with such tenderness. The eyes that watched me with a depth of feeling I'd once thought impossible. Could it be true? Could Lucas Bailey, the boy who'd forgotten me, the man who'd married me for convenience, Chapter 34 Heartler Confession truly have changed so completely? Or more accurately, could he have finally recognized something that had been developing between us all along-a connection that transcended arrangement or obligation, that had survived misunderstanding and separation and hurt? As the city lights twinkled below us and the night air carried the first hints of spring, I allowed myself to consider the possibility that the walls I'd built to protect myself might no longer be necessary. That perhaps, after all the missed connections and wrong turns, Lucas and I might finally find our way to the relationship that had always existed as potential between us. Not because of our son, though he was the precious result of one honest night. Not because of convenience or arrangement or what others expected. But because two people who had known each other since youth, who had circled each other through circumstances neither could have predicted, had finally reached a point of clarity about what truly mattered. 'I should check on little Lucas," I said, rising from my chair. "Make sure he's still sleeping." Lucas nodded, understanding in his eyes. "Of course." As I turned to go, I paused, something compelling me to offer at least a small acknowledgment of his courage in revealing the truth after so long. "Lucas?" He looked up, hope flickering across his features. "Yes?" Thank you," I said softly. "For telling me the truth. For being brave enough to say it sober this time." A smile touched his lips-not his usual confident smirk, but something gentler, more vulnerable. "It only took ne two years and an ocean between us to find the courage. Better late than never, right?" Despite everything, I found myself smiling back. "Maybe. We'll see." t wasn't a promise or a declaration. It wasn't forgiveness for past hurts or assurance of future happiness. Bu t was something-an opening, perhaps, where before there had been only carefully maintained walls. And for tonight, that opening was enough.