She walks down the hallway, and after a moment, I follow.
Past a home office. Past what looks like a guest bedroom. To a door at the end of the hall that's slightly ajar.
Margaret pushes it open. And I stop breathing.
Because it's a nursery.
Not a corner sectioned off with a folding screen. Not a half-finished paint job in a studio apartment.
A real nursery.
The walls are painted a soft sage green. There's a white crib with a mobile of stars and moons hanging above it. A changing table. A rocking chair by the window. Shelves lined with books and stuffed animals. A rug with clouds and rainbows.
It's beautiful—everything I've been trying to create in my shoebox apartment and failing.
"He did this?" My voice comes out strangled.
"He's been working on it all week." Margaret's voice is gentle. "Ordered the furniture. Picked out the paint. Even assembled the crib himself, which—" she smiles slightly "—did not go well at first."
My eyes are burning. "Why would he do this?"
"Because he loves you. And he's terrified. And he doesn't know how to show it except by building things." She squeezes my shoulder. “I do have the paperwork ready for you. I just…wanted you to see this first.” She offers me a small smile. “I’ll fetch it now.”
She leaves before I can respond and I'm standing alone in this perfect nursery, trying not to cry.
I hear something from deeper in the room—a soft curse, the sound of a paint roller hitting a tray.
Thrown, I walk around the crib, venturing towards the sound that gets louder and louder.
Until I see it. Him.
Donovan.
Standing in front of a half-painted accent wall, wearing old jeans and a t-shirt that's splattered with sage green paint. His dark hair is a mess. There's a streak of paint across his chiseled jaw.
He looks up when I appear, roller frozen in his hand, gray gaze soft.
"Emma."
"Hi."
We stare at each other for a long moment.
He sets down the roller. "I didn't think you'd come.”
I shrug. “I wouldn’t if Margaret hadn’t ambushed me.” I gesture at the room. "This is... it's beautiful."
"It's not finished. The accent wall still needs—"
"Donovan." I cut him off. "Why?"
He's quiet for a moment, and I watch him struggle with whatever he's trying to say.
"Because I'm a fucking idiot," he says finally. "Because I let you push me away instead of fighting. Because I've spent two weeks convinced I was respecting your boundaries when really I was just scared of being rejected."
My throat tightens. "Donovan—"
"I'm not done." He steps closer, tall and muscular, smelling of paint and sandalwood and the scent of his warm skin. “And I’m not letting you throw me away. How about that?”
