“If we have kids—” “When we have kids,” I correct again, and she rolls her eyes, knocking me in the arm. “When we have kids … a nursery. Shelves filled with all the books we’ll read them, sitting in the window, where the sun will shine through each morning and kiss their cheeks, where all the stars will dance above them night after night. We’ll sing songs and we’ll dance and we’ll laugh and we’ll grow. And when we put them to bed each night—” I catch her around the waist as she spins around the room, hauling her against my chest, cupping her cheek as my thumb moves over her lower lip. “I’ll
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