He leans back, smug as hell. “Told you.”

  I finish the roll, all grace thrown out the window, and lick the cinnamon off my thumb while he grins at me. We drink hot chocolate between bites, thick and sweet and a little salty, with a hint of something I can’t name but want more of.

  The air smells of vanilla and nostalgia in this quiet little cafe tucked away in a village I never would’ve found on my own. I’m full and warm and content.

  “You’ve ruined me with these cinnamon rolls. None will ever compare to these.”

  Alex points to my face. “You’ve got sugar on your lip, babe.”

  I go to wipe it, but he leans in and kisses it away instead. And in a snap, I realize I’m falling deeper in love with my husband… and his Swedish side.

  Britta returns to the table and exchanges a few words with Alex in Swedish. I can’t follow a single word, but the exchange resembles a goodbye. As she leans in, he wraps her in a tight hug, and she pats his back.

  She turns to me, pulling me into a soft, grandmotherly embrace. She presses a gentle kiss to each of my cheeks and says, “Adjö, min älskling. Jag hoppas att en dag se dina barn springa runt här med dig.”

  I look to Alex for translation. “She says ‘Goodbye, my darling. I hope that one day I’ll see your children running around here with you.’”

  My heart squeezes at her tender words. I nod, emotion thick in my throat. “I hope so as well.”

  One day, I want to bring our children here to this village. I want them to know where they come from. To hear the lilt of this language, taste these meals, and experience the place that holds so much of their story.

  Alex slips his fingers through mine and gives a gentle tug. “There’s one more place I want you to see.”

  We trudge up a narrow, unshoveled path between heavy snowbanks. The trees crowd close, the sky a pale gray wash above. When the little house comes into view—stone-walled, sloped roof covered in snow—Alex stops.

  “This is my grandparents’ first home. My grandfather built it with his own hands. And my dad was born here.”

  The house is small and weather-worn. A shutter hangs slightly crooked. It’s nothing flashy. Nothing grand. But its realness and rich history make it beautiful in a way nothing polished ever could be.

  He brushes snow off the wooden nameplate near the front door. “Here.”

  I lean in and see it—faint but still there. A name carved into the wood.

  Sebring.

  My breath catches. I take off my glove and press my fingers over it, tracing each letter. “This is special, Alex.”

  The pride I see in his eyes guts me a little. “You carry so much legacy. And you carry it all so well.”

  “I wish I had learned more about this side of my family.”

  “It’s not too late. You still have your dad. Come back here with him someday. Let him tell you the stories only he can. I want you to know them so you can pass them down to our babies.”

  His smile spreads slow and tender. “Our babies. Hearing you say that… you have no idea what that does to me.”

  “Oh, I think I have some idea.”

  His eyes drift over my face, full of something soft and simmering. “You wanna head back to the cabin… keep practicing?”

  A laugh slips out as I lean in. “Thought you’d never ask.”

  The sauna smells of cedar. Heat clings to my skin when we step in, wrapping around me like an embrace.

  Alex pours water over the stones and the room hisses to life. Steam rises between us, and I sink onto the wooden bench, my legs stretched out, towel wrapped around me. My skin glows pink from the heat, and my hair clings to the back of my neck.

  He sits across from me, sweat glistening at his temples, chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm.

  “I’m being roasted alive,” I say, half-laughing, wiping the sheen from my brow.

  He grins. “But it’s a good kind of roasted, right?”

  I act as though I’m dying, but the truth is I like this and the simplicity of it, the way everything is stripped down to the essential. No distractions. Just heat, skin, relaxation, and the man across from me, looking way too smug for someone who’s about to ask me to do something insane.

  “We’re going to roll in the snow next,” he says.

  “No, we’re not.”

  He nods. “We are.”

  “Alex. No. People die of hypothermia.”

  He leans forward, eyes bright. “It shocks the body. Makes you feel alive. And it’s Swedish tradition.”

  “I am very alive, thank you, and I’d like to stay that way.”

  He stands, grabs my hand, and grins. “Come on, favorite. Trust me. You’ll love it.”

  Outside, the cold is immediate and brutal, and the wind slices across my skin. My bare feet hit the snow and every nerve in my body screams. I shriek—a high-pitched, guttural sound I can’t even pretend is attractive—and lurch backward.

  “Oh my God. Oh my God.”

  Alex is already laughing, his breath fogging the air, body bare except for the towel slung low around his hips.

  “Magnolia, you’ve got to commit,” he says.

  “I am not a snow person.”

  “You’re about to be.”

  And before I can stop him, he scoops me into his arms—just lifts me right off the snowy porch and walks straight into the drift beside it. The snow hits my legs, my back, my shoulders. I scream. Loud. Obnoxious. Possibly traumatic.

  Definitely dramatic.

  He sets me down and wraps his body around mine.

  “See? You’re surviving.”

  “Barely,” I say, clinging to him like he’s a human furnace. “And this isn’t fair. You do hot-to-cold therapy after rugby. You’re used to this.”

  He kisses the tip of my nose. “You’re never going to forgive me, are you?”

  “No,” I deadpan. “I am not.”

  “Okay, fine.”

  He takes me back inside, and warmth returns in slow waves. The fireplace crackles. The wool blanket is thick and scratchy but in the best way. I curl into it, my skin still tingling from the snow, while Alex pours us each a mug of something that smells of cinnamon, cloves, and red wine.

  “This is glögg,” he says, handing it to me.

  I take a sip. It’s hot, sweet, and spiced. “This tastes like Christmas.”

  He nods and settles beside me on the thick rug in front of the fire, legs stretched out, a leather-bound book in hand. “This is a journal my grandfather kept during the war. He wrote it in Swedish. I’ve never read it out loud before.” His eyes don’t meet mine when he says it. Just stares at the paper as if it might burn him.

  I touch his arm. “You don’t have to.”

  He nods. “It might not be pretty, but I want to. For you.”

  He clears his throat and reads. Slowly, of course. His Swedish threads into the cadence of the English, softening it somehow, reminding me of poetry.

  “I chose to fight for a land that isn’t my own, but it’s in my blood. My mother’s stories of Karelia and songs sung in a language I never mastered made it seem like home long before I ever stepped across the border into Finland.

  * * *

  We had no promises. No glory. Only fire and cold and a hope we held like a thread between our hands. We lost so much. But when the world gave us no peace, we built it anyway between us. With our hands. With our stubborn hearts.

  * * *

  I returned home today, not to parades or fanfare, but to her. My beloved beauty. She was standing at the edge of the snow-covered lane in the same wool coat she wore the day I left, though it hangs looser now, like time tried to take something from her too.

  * * *

  She didn’t cry. She didn’t speak. She just opened her arms—and I walked into them like a man starved for light. No one tells you how loud the silence is after war, but she quieted it in a single look.

  * * *

  Love isn’t just who you protect. It’s who waits and remembers your voice when even you have forgotten it. It’s the one you return to when the world has burned, and all you have left is the promise you made to the woman you love.

  * * *

  Tonight, we sleep beneath the same roof again. In the bed we built before the world split open. No medals. No songs. Just her hand on my chest and the rhythm of something sacred—her belief in me, still steady after all this time.”

  Alex’s hand tightens around the journal, and I reach for him, threading my fingers through his. “Your grandfather’s words are beautiful. I love hearing you read.”

  He huffs a quiet laugh, eyes still on the worn pages. “Magnolia… we both know a six-year-old reads better than I do.”

  I hold his chin, forcing him to look at me. “Okay. Maybe a six-year-old could read it faster. But not one would read it the way you just did. You felt it, and so did I.”

  He sets the journal aside and pulls me into his lap, arms wrapping around my waist. “I love I can share this side of myself with you without shame. No hiding.”

  I press my forehead to his, my hand resting over his heart. “There’s nothing in you that needs to hide, Alex. Especially not from me. I love every part of you.”

  Outside, the wind howls through the trees. The fire has burned low again, casting a sleepy orange halo over the cabin walls. The snowfall has slowed to a silent drift. Above us, the glass ceiling reveals a sky full of constellations I don’t know the names of, but I swear they’re watching us.

  Alex lies behind me, his chest curved to my spine, one hand splayed warm and steady over my stomach, the other linked with mine just above my head.

  We fall asleep that way—anchored in quiet, wrapped in breath and heartbeat, cradled beneath a sky that has seen everything.

  Chapter 28

  Magnolia Sebring

  My world used to be so small.

  Small like trailer walls and too-loud silence. Small like the way people in my hometown talked behind your back loud enough for it to land on your front porch. I believed big dreams belonged to other girls—girls who got picked up from school on time. Girls with daddies in the picture and mamas who didn’t forget their birthdays.

  But now I understand what big dreams are.

  Snow falling against a glass ceiling in the woods of Sweden, my husband’s hands warm against my skin as the sky turned violet overhead.

  Standing on the edge of a cliff in the Scottish Highlands, wind in my hair, Alex behind me, his arms wrapped tightly around me.

  Dancing in Paris with rosé on our tongues and Monet in our hearts.

  Gelato kisses in Italy, sunlight on my shoulders, and laughter spilling down cobbled streets.

  Alex gave me the perfect honeymoon. Every week was a revelation.

  I’ve always wanted to travel, always dreamed of it, but I never imagined my first real taste of the world would come wrapped in four weeks of uninterrupted joy with him.

  He didn’t give me a honeymoon. He gave me pieces of the world and pieces of himself.

  But eventually, all honeymoons must come to an end.

  Mornings in Sydney start early for us.

  Alex leaves before the sun has even thought about showing up, rugby gear slung over his shoulder, hair still damp from the shower, a kiss pressed to my cheek before I’m fully awake. His schedule is brutal: strength training, strategy meetings, on-field drills that stretch from morning to afternoon. But he never complains. Not once.

  He loves it. The discipline. The grind. The team.

  And I love seeing him in that space, doing what he was made to do, chasing a purpose that burns hot and loud. It works for us.

  Because while he’s chasing glory on the field, I’m chasing a legacy at Sebring Hotels.

  My days start a little slower—coffee from the little cafe on the corner where the barista already knows my name and my order.

  There’s a stack of fabric swatches on my desk fanned out like a painter’s palette—muted velvets, cool-toned linens, rich textured neutrals that make my heart flutter in a way only design can.

  Beside them, my design boards—part vision, part obsession—lean against the wall, covered in clippings and hand-drawn notes, annotated in ink and instinct. Candle burning. Music low. Mood set.

  This is my rhythm now.

  I’m more than choosing tile and textiles. I’m shaping a place that will outlive me. One that says I was here. A space my children might one day walk through and be proud that their mama helped build.

  And that keeps me going… even when Alex is gone twelve-plus hours a day.

  Especially then.

  I’m in the middle of a full-scale renovation of one of Sebring Hotels’ oldest properties, and it’s everything I’ve ever wanted. High stakes. Creative control. Endless opportunity to take something faded and turn it into something unforgettable.

  I walk job sites in heels and hard hats, and speak fluent contractor and interior architect. I send late-night emails with detailed mood boards and annotate lighting-fixture orders at midnight.

  This is the life I imagined in all those quiet, lonely years when I didn’t know if I’d ever outrun the past. This is the dream I clung to while my classmates whispered about my mother’s latest scandal and my clothes that never quite fit right. I wanted more—more than surviving. More than small-town shame.

  And now? I’m building it––brick by damn brick.

  Not for me but for what’s coming. For the family Alex and I will have one day. For the life we’ll hand down. And perhaps that’s why I’m not lonely when he’s not here. Because we’re not disconnected. We’re aligned––two people running hard toward the same future from different angles. Rooted in the same love.

  And when he walks back through the door, sweaty and exhausted, and drops his gym bag by the door before kissing me? It’s everything. But tonight, his kiss will have to wait.

  Because while Alex is suiting up for some formal team dinner that probably involves one too many speeches and barely enough wine to keep it bearable, I have somewhere else to be.

  Somewhere softer. And sweeter.

  The box sits beside me on the passenger seat, wrapped in cream linen and tied with a silk ribbon the color of rosewater. Tucked beneath the bow is a handwritten note—small, simple, heartfelt. The kind you write when the gift itself says the rest.

  I picked it out weeks ago. A baby quilt, hand-stitched by an artist in Tasmania. It’s soft as a sigh, embroidered with a sleepy fawn curled beneath a tree, surrounded by forest friends—a rabbit, a fox, a pair of curious birds. A gift meant to be passed down, such as lullabies and bedtime stories. Like love stitched into cloth.

  Krishna and Kye’s daughter was born before we got home. Vivian. Eight pounds of perfection if the pictures are anything to go by. Jet-black hair, skin the color of warm cream, her little mouth always puckered in sleep or mid yawn. Every time Krishna sends a photo, I stop what I’m doing and smile.

  Tonight, I get to meet her.

  I pull up to their house just as the sun sinks, the sky blushing gold and lavender. A wind chime tinkles near the porch. And through the glass, I see Krishna with that new-mama softness—slow and luminous and completely transformed.

  Krishna beams, her hair pulled into a soft braid, her eyes glowing in a way only new mothers seem to manage when they’re bone-deep exhausted but wholly at peace all at once.

  “Come in, Magnolia,” she says, and before I can answer, she’s pulling me into a warm hug that smells of milk and vanilla and something soft I can’t name.

  I smile against her shoulder. “You are glowing.”

  She snorts, waving me inside. “I look like a sleep-deprived cow.”

  “No, you look like someone who just created the most perfect thing in the world.”

  And then I see her. Sweet Vivian.

  Swaddled in a pale mauve blanket, nestled against Kye’s chest, her tiny hand curling against his shirt collar.

  She has a full head of black hair, wild and soft and beautiful.

  Kye stands and eases Vivian into Krishna’s arms with the quiet adoration of someone who hasn’t stopped falling in love since the moment he first saw her.

  Krishna looks at me. “Wanna hold her?”

  Panic flutters in my chest. “Oh. Um—I don’t want to wake her. She looks so peaceful.”

  Krishna laughs. “She sleeps through her dad playing guitar, my sister vacuuming, and the neighbor’s dog barking at every moving leaf. Trust me, you won’t wake her.”

  I hesitate, but my feet carry me forward.

  Krishna places her in my arms. And something shifts in an instant.

  She fits. Not in a literal way but in a soul-deep, this-means-something way. And I forget how to breathe because this is something I never expected.

  Not now. Not yet. But a blooming begins, and it grows deeper and wider with every second I hold her.

  I glide my thumb across her temple. “She’s perfect,” I whisper.

  Krishna sits beside me, watching with that knowing smile only women who’ve crossed through the veil of motherhood seem to wear. “She’s identical to Kye, which is so unfair. I’m the one who was miserable. She could’ve at least come out looking a little like me.”

  I glance up, smiling. “What about her lips?”

  We both laugh and simultaneously say, “No.”

  We sit in that hush for a while, the only sounds the soft whoosh of a white noise machine and the delicate breaths of a baby who doesn’t know her very existence is undoing me.

  And it could be that’s what motherhood does.

  Perhaps it unravels you in the quietest, most unexpected places—only to knit you back together into something stronger. Something softer. Something new.