He shook his head, then rested his forehead against mine. "You're lucky I love you more than my ego."
"I know," I whispered, brushing his hand with mine. "But seriously... I'll miss him."
"So will I," he said, quieter now. "But I'm still making dinner tonight. Burnt garlic and all."
*
I made it a habit, those late afternoons. I'd tell myself I was just going to have lunch with Thomas at the shelter but really, I was going for more than sandwiches and conversation.
It had become a kind of ritual. I'd show up just past noon, perfume-smudged notebook in hand, hair tied back, the scent of vetiver or bergamot still clinging to my wrists from the morning's experiments. Thomas would already be there, usually crouched near a kennel or balancing two bowls of food in one hand while wrangling a leash in the other. He always lit up when he saw me, in that quiet way he did, eyebrows lifting, shoulders easing, like my presence settled something in him.
We'd sit on the back steps once the rush was over, legs stretched out in the sun, dogs padding lazily around us. I'd hand him whatever I'd brought—sometimes lentil soup, sometimes a slightly crushed sandwich—and he'd pretend to be impressed every single time.
He'd brush his hands on his jeans like he always did, and I'd ramble about the way jasmine opens a scent pyramid or how top notes were like first impressions and how I still couldn't decide between fig or bergamot for the summer blend. He didn't always understand the details, but he always listened. That was enough.
Sometimes he'd nod, and then casually say something like, "I think this terrier has a heart condition," while a three-legged mutt climbed into his lap. There was something healing about it all, about the dogs, the warmth, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed.
But this time was different.
This time, we all went. The kids had been begging for weeks, and Thomas  caved. So on a bright Saturday morning, we packed snacks, extra wipes, and a ridiculous number of dog treats and made the drive out as a family.
Jimmy was pretending to be unimpressed, hoodie up and earbuds dangling, but I caught him sneaking glances at the road signs like he was trying not to be excited. Alice brought a notebook to take "very important dog notes," and Lola kicked her feet in her car seat, chanting "dog-dog-dog" like it was a spell.
The moment we arrived, all the quiet, soft moments I'd shared with Thomas came rushing back but now layered with the chaotic, beautiful energy of our family. Alice squealed when a hound licked her cheek. Jimmy crouched down without a word to pet an older golden retriever, murmuring something only the dog could hear. Lola toddled after every wagging tail like she was born for this.
Thomas watched them all with a look I knew well by now. That stunned, tender awe he tried to hide behind dry humor and a furrowed brow. He'd built this place from the ground up. And now, he was watching it fill with laughter, love, and all the small things he thought he'd lost the right to ever have.
I laced my fingers through his and leaned in, smiling. "So," I murmured, "Marigold, huh?"
He didn't look at me, just smirked. "It's a nice flower."
"It's my flower," I laughed.
"I know."
For the first time, I realized the shelter hadn't just been a project or a redemption arc. It was a love letter—one I'd been reading slowly, day by day, with every visit, every sandwich, every shared silence under the sun.
And now, our whole family was reading it too.
We were halfway down the row of kennels when we saw them. Two dogs. One sat calmly at attention—a Border Collie mix, lean and alert, with a white chest and deep brown fur that feathered slightly at the ears. His eyes were a rich amber, intelligent and steady, watching us like he'd already made up his mind. The other sprawled beside him, all gangly limbs and boundless joy, a black Labrador retriever, maybe part Great Dane, with oversized paws and ears that refused to stay put. His tongue lolled out the side of his mouth as if smiling was his default state.
They sat together like they'd been waiting just for us. Like they already knew.
Alice gasped so loudly it echoed off the walls. "That one looks like he needs a hug!"
Before I could say a word, she darted forward, arms flung wide, and wrapped them around the big black lab's neck. Instead of flinching or barking, he practically melted, letting out a delighted groan and flopping onto his side with a dramatic sigh. His tail slammed the floor in a steady, joyful rhythm like a one-dog applause.
Lola squealed in delight, bouncing beside her sister and babbling something that vaguely sounded like "hug doggie." She threw herself into the pile with fearless toddler glee, nestling into the lab's thick fur.
Thomas glanced at me, one brow raised. "We came to visit. Not adopt a pack."
I gave him a pointed look. "Tell them that."
The Border Collie mix had wandered over by then, calm and composed, sitting quietly in front of Jimmy, who looked like he was pretending not to be completely charmed. He knelt down cautiously and extended a hand. The dog sniffed, then pressed its nose into his palm.
Jimmy looked up. "This one's smart. I can tell."
Thomas groaned. "We're leaving with two dogs, aren't we?"
"Definitely," I whispered.
Alice had already named them, of course. "This one is Cinnamon Buttercup. And that one is Prince Pancake."
"Those are..." Thomas struggled. "Those are names."
"They're perfect," Alice insisted.
Later, while the paperwork was being signed and the dogs lounged at our feet like they'd always belonged there, 
"Hmm." I leaned my head on his shoulder. "Think the dogs will like the garden?"
"I know they will. Just like the rest of us."
We left with two new family members, a bag of kibble, and a plan: to spend the next week at the house he renovated with Dad, the one with the wraparound porch and the wildflowers growing through the fence. The one we hadn't dared return to until we were ready.
And now we were.
That night, we packed lightly, tucked the kids in, and promised each other the only kind of vow that really matters in a home full of noise and second chances: To keep choosing this life, this love, this messy, miraculous thing we're building.
One scent at a time. One dog at a time. One healed version of ourselves at a time.