"Absolutely not."

Casey stared at the onesie her mother and Drew's mom were holding up with matching grins. The words "Mommy & Daddy's Little Matchmaker" sparkled in pink glitter across the front.

"It's cute!" Marie protested.

"It's precious," Helen Thompson agreed.

"It's mortifying." Casey took another bite of cake—her third piece, but who was counting? "We're not using our daughter as a relationship prop."

"Of course not, dear." Marie exchanged a look with Helen that clearly said they thought she was doing exactly that. "More punch?"

The baby shower was in full swing in the Mitchells' backyard. Pink and white balloons bobbed in the summer breeze. Gift bags stuffed with diapers and tiny clothes crowded every surface. And their mothers had apparently formed some sort of matrimonial conspiracy while decorating.

"Need rescue?" Drew appeared at her elbow, plate laden with the cheese straws his mother only made for special occasions.

"God, yes." Casey grabbed a cheese straw. "Your mom and mine are plotting."

"I noticed. Did you see the cake?"

Casey glanced at the elaborate confection, finally reading the cursive inscription: "Welcome Baby Thompson."

"But we haven't even decided—"

"I know." Drew's voice was gentle. "Let them have their fun. We can figure out last names later."

Later. Everything was later these days. Later they'd decide on a name. Later they'd finish the nursery. Later they'd figure out what they were to each other.

But later was starting to feel a lot like now.

"Present time!" Helen called, and Casey groaned.

"Do we have to?"

"Yes," chorused about twenty female voices.

So Casey found herself in the decorated chair of honor—technically a patio chair, but festooned with enough tulle and ribbons to satisfy both grandmothers-to-be. Drew sat beside her on a significantly less decorated seat, ready to help document each gift for thank-you notes.

The usual shower gifts appeared: baby clothes in improbable sizes, equipment she'd need but hadn't known existed, advice books she'd probably never read. But then Melissa, her assistant, stepped forward with a large flat package.

"This is from the whole office," she said, grinning.

Casey unwrapped it carefully, gasping when she saw what was inside. It was a framed collection of architectural drawings—the original plans for their house, rendered in Drew's precise hand. But these weren't the basic blueprints. These were the dream versions, the ones he'd sketched late at night when they first bought the place. The wraparound porch with its reading nook. The kitchen with its big island for family dinners. And there, in what was now going to be the nursery, a carefully drawn window seat with tiny details like stuffed animals and children's books.

"How did you...?" Casey looked at Melissa.

"Drew helped." Melissa beamed. "He found the originals in his old files. We just had them professionally framed."

Casey's fingers traced the glass, following the lines of their dreams. "These are from before. Before everything fell apart."

"Before we knew how to build it right," Drew said quietly.

She looked up at him, finding the same mix of memory and hope in his eyes that she felt in her chest. Around them, the party continued—their mothers cooing over tiny shoes, their friends chatting and laughing, the whole town bearing witness to this moment like they had all the others.

But somehow, in the middle of all that noise, she and Drew had found their own quiet space.

The next gift was from Marie—a familiar blue dress with tiny flowers.

"Mom..." Casey's throat tightened.

"I saved it," Marie said softly. "From before. I thought... well, I thought maybe this time..."

The dress she'd been wearing the day of the miscarriage. The one Drew had helped her out of when they got home from the hospital. The one that had stayed in the back of her mother's closet, waiting for another chance.

Drew's hand found hers, squeezing tight.

"It's perfect," Casey managed. "For coming home from the hospital."

Marie wiped her eyes. Helen pretended she wasn't crying. And the party moved on to safer gifts—diaper genies and baby monitors and the world's smallest sneakers from Casey's college roommate.

But that dress, carefully refolded and set aside, seemed to change something in the air. Like they'd finally acknowledged the ghost that had haunted them for so long, and in doing so, had somehow set it free.

The gifts continued. A handmade quilt from Drew's grandmother. A silver rattle that had belonged to Casey's great-grandmother. And then, from both sets of parents together, a final large box.

Inside was a rocking chair. Not just any rocking chair—THE rocking chair. The one that had sat in Drew's grandmother's nursery, then his mother's, then been promised to them for their own baby someday.

"We had it restored," Helen explained. "The upholsterer matched the new nursery colors exactly."

Seafoam green fabric with gray piping. The compromise they'd finally reached after three paint store visits and one very long discussion about color psychology.

"It's perfect," Casey whispered, running her hand along the smooth wood. "Remember when we used to visit your grandmother? How she'd tell us stories about all the babies this chair had rocked?"

"And all the babies it would rock someday." Drew's voice was rough with emotion.

They'd spent countless Sunday afternoons in his grandmother's sitting room, listening to family stories in that chair. Planning their own future. Dreaming about their own babies.

And now here they were, those same dreams taking new shape in seafoam green and gray.

The party wound down slowly, guests drifting away with hugs and well-wishes and knowing smiles. Their mothers busied themselves with cleanup, shooting meaningful glances whenever Drew and Casey stood too close together (which was often) or shared private smiles over particularly ridiculous gifts (which was constantly).

Finally, in a quiet moment between goodbye waves, Drew and Casey found themselves alone by the rocking chair.

"Try it," Drew urged.

"Here? Now?"

"Why not?"

So Casey settled into the chair, letting Drew guide it into a gentle rock. The motion was smooth, practiced, perfect for soothing a fussy baby or reading bedtime stories or just sitting together in comfortable silence.

Drew's hand rested on the back of the chair, his thumb absently stroking the wood his grandmother's hands had worn smooth over decades of use. Without thinking, Casey reached up and caught his fingers with hers.

The touch was electric. Familiar. Right.

Drew's breath caught. Casey's heart raced. And suddenly they were moving together, drawn by the same gravity that had pulled them together in high school, that had kept pulling them back no matter how far they tried to run.

This kiss wasn't like their goodbye night, all passion and desperation. It wasn't like their almost-kiss at the festival, hesitant and unsure.

This was coming home.

This was building something new out of something old.

This was every story that chair had witnessed, every dream they'd shared, every lesson they'd learned the hard way, all rolled into one perfect moment.

When they finally broke apart, Casey found herself crying. Drew's eyes were suspiciously bright too.

"So," he said, voice unsteady.

"So," she echoed.

"That happened."

"It did."

"Any regrets?"

Casey thought about the framed blueprints, the tiny dress, the rocking chair that had seen generations of love stories. About all the ways they'd grown up and apart and maybe, just maybe, back together again.

"No," she said softly. "No regrets."

Their daughter kicked, strong and sure, as if adding her own opinion to the conversation.

"She agrees," Drew smiled, his hand finding Casey's belly.

"She's a smart girl."

"Gets that from her mother."

They stayed like that, sharing space and breath and possibility, until their mothers' not-so-subtle coughing drew them back to reality.

But something had shifted. Something had settled.

Something had finally, finally come home.