I lean back against him, watching Mia carefully pour the soufflé batter into ramekins. Nine months ago, I would have pulled out spreadsheets, analyzed every angle, calculated every risk before making such a decision. Now, I find myself simply trusting the feeling of rightness.
"I think," I say, turning in his arms, "that it sounds perfect."
The kiss he gives me is soft, sweet with promise. "I don't need an answer about the 'room to grow' part yet," he murmurs against my lips. "Just wanted you to know I'm thinking about it."
"I'm thinking about it too," I admit. The truth is, I've been thinking about it more than I've let on.
"Ewww, again with the kissing?" Mia groans from her position at the counter, though her disgust is clearly exaggerated for effect. "Can't you wait until after the soufflés?"
Declan laughs, dropping one more quick kiss on my lips before returning to his sous chef. "You're right, Chef Mia. Soufflés wait for no one."
I watch them work together, this man and my daughter, their movements synchronized after months of shared kitchen adventures. Outside, mountain laurel blooms paint the hillsides pink and white. Inside, the sweet scent of chocolate fills the air.
Our story wasn't in any five-year plan. It doesn't fit neatly into corporate metrics or efficiency models. But as I look around the kitchen—at the misshapen mug still proudly displayed on Declan's shelf, at Mia's growing collection of aprons hanging by the door, at the calendar on the wall marked with dates for New York and dates for Elk Ridge—I know with absolute certainty:
Sometimes the most beautiful outcomes are the ones you never thought to plan for.
