Always You

Forever and Always

2 Years Later

The morning light spilled through the kitchen windows, casting golden streaks across the hardwood floors. Our house—ours—was quiet except for the soft hum of the coffee maker and the occasional chirp from the backyard. Jace stood barefoot by the counter, her curls tied up messily, wearing one of my oversized hoodies. She looked tired, but beautiful. Always beautiful.

I leaned against the doorway, watching her stir creamer into her mug. "You didn't sleep again?" I asked gently.

She shrugged. "I kept thinking about the nursery. I want it to be perfect."

I smiled and walked over, wrapping my arms around her from behind. "It already is. You painted the stars on the ceiling yourself, remember?"

She turned in my arms, resting her forehead against mine. "I still can't believe this is real."

Neither could I, sometimes.

Four years ago, we walked out of that house with nothing but each other. We built everything from scratch—jobs, therapy, healing, trust. There were nights I woke up crying, and mornings Jace couldn't get out of bed. But we never gave up. Not on ourselves. Not on each other.

Now we were twenty-three, standing in a kitchen we owned, preparing for a baby we'd fought hard to bring into a world that hadn't always been kind.

💭 Flashback

I still remember the day I told Jace I wanted to become a social worker. We were sitting on the floor of our first apartment, surrounded by unpacked boxes and cheap takeout.

"I want to help kids like me," I said quietly, picking at my noodles. "The ones who don't have anyone."

Jace looked up from her plate, her eyes soft but serious. "You'd be incredible at that."

"You think so?"

"I know so," she said, pulling me into her lap. "You've got the biggest heart I've ever seen. You don't just survive—you heal. And you help others do the same."

That was the moment I knew I could do it. Because she believed in me when I didn't believe in myself.

Now, I work at a youth center downtown, helping kids navigate trauma, school, and broken homes. It's hard. Some days I come home drained, but Jace is always there waiting with dinner, a warm blanket, and that look that says, I've got you.

Jace joined the Army Reserves two years ago. She needed structure, purpose, and a way to channel everything she'd been through. It was tough at first—being apart during training, the long weekends away—but she came back stronger, more grounded. She's now a logistics coordinator, and she's damn good at it. Her team respects her. She's the kind of leader who doesn't just bark orders—she earns loyalty.

I reached for the small ultrasound photo taped to the fridge. "They're going to be so loved," I whispered.

Jace nodded, her eyes misty. "And safe. Always safe."

We spent the rest of the morning in quiet joy—folding tiny onesies, rearranging stuffed animals, arguing playfully over baby names. The scars we carried hadn't vanished, but they no longer defined us. They were reminders of how far we'd come.

Later, as the sun dipped low and the nursery glowed with soft lamplight, Jace pulled me close and kissed my temple. "You're going to be the best mom," she said.

I smiled, resting my hand on the curve of my belly. "Only because I have the best partner."

Outside, the world kept turning. But inside our little home, everything felt still. Whole. Hopeful.

And for the first time in forever, the future didn't feel like something to fear.

It felt like something to welcome.

The End, I wanted to keep it going but i feel like this story has run its course and it was time for an end.  Make sure to vote thank you for all the support.