His mouth tightens. For a second, he looks like he'd rather reopen the IPO prospectus than answer.
“She—That doesn’t matter. Because I want this baby, Emma," he says, and there’s no hesitation this time. His eyes are steady, dark. "I didn't know that on the terrace. I hadn't heard the heartbeat yet. I hadn't seen…" His gaze flicks to the photos. "That. But I know it now. I want this baby. And I want you."
My lungs forget their job for a second. "You have a shitty way of showing it."
A corner of his mouth lifts. "I deserved that."
"Yeah.” My voice wobbles. "You do."
He rounds the island, stopping right in front of me.
Up close, I can see the faint stubble along his jaw, the silver threading his dark hair at his temples.
It should make him look older. It just makes him look more dangerous.
"This is me showing up," he says quietly. “The OB waiting room, ultrasound gel, all of it. I'm still scared. I’m still worried I’m going to fuck this up. But I'm here. And I'm not going anywhere unless you tell me to."
My throat tightens. "So what now?"
"Now," he says, and something new enters his tone—decisive, CEO-steely, "I make a wildly overbearing proposal and you tell me if I’ve completely lost my mind."
"That sounds promising."
"Move in with me."
My brain blue-screens. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Move in," he repeats, calm like he’s suggesting we change a meeting time. "Your apartmentis a fire hazard with walls. You’re climbing flights of stairs while nauseous. This place has elevators, a guest room that can be yours, another room that can be a nursery, and a kitchen where I can attempt to learn what the hell pregnant women eat when everything makes them sick."
"Donovan, this is insane. We’re not…" I gesture between us. "We don't even know what we are."
"We’re two adults who made a baby and are trying not to screw it up," he says. "We date. We cohabitate. We figure out boundaries and therapy and whatever else we have to. But we do it somewhere that doesn’t involve you carrying groceries up a stairmaster in July.”
"It's too fast."
"Emma." His voice drops, all velvet and iron. "What's fast is your body changing while you pretend this is a minor inconvenience we can pencil in after the product launch."
"That’s not fair."
"It’s accurate." He softens it with a sigh. "Look, I'm not asking you to sign away your independence. I'm asking you to consider letting me show up. To let me be in this with you day to day, not just in exam rooms and boardrooms."
The idea is both scary and…achingly tempting. Sasha and Riley are a world away. So is my mom, my dad, everyone all back in Chicago.
And I picture waking up to this view.
To him.
To not being alone with my nausea and my Google searches and my fears at three AM.
"I'll think about it," I say finally, the only answer I can give without spontaneously combusting.
His broad shoulders ease a fraction. "That's all I'm asking."
Taking a step back, he glances toward the kitchen.
"Are youhungry?" he asks.
I look down at my empty stomach. "I could maybe manage something that doesn't smell like a fryer."
