“That’s why this is here,” he says.
I follow him just in time to see his hand slide along the edge of the wall.
The panels part smoothly.
And suddenly his office is right there—open, connected, no real boundary between us at all.
My breath catches.
It’s subtle. Clever. So him.
He turns back to me. “Unless we have meetings,” he says quietly, “this door stays open.”
Something in my chest gives way.
I don’t think. I just move—crossing the space between us and launching myself into his arms. He catches me easily, arms wrapping around me like this is exactly where I belong.
“I thought you were never going to let me out of your sight,” I tease softly.
His mouth dips to my ear, his voice low, intimate—just for me.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs. His hand settles at my waist, warm and possessive, and he leans in just enough that my pulse stutters. “I have every intention of making good use of that window,” he adds, voice dark with promise.
Heat floods my cheeks.
I pull back just enough to look at him, my smile slow and wicked.
“I can’t wait.”
He grins—unrepentant, hungry, completely undone by me.
And I realize, with a quiet certainty, that this—us—isn’t something temporary anymore.
It’s inevitable.
The night doesn’t feel real.
That’s the only way I can describe it—like I’ve stepped into someone else’s life and I’m waiting for the moment I wake up. My name is on the invitations. My vision is on the banners. My nonprofit—something that lived for so long as scribbles in notebooks and late-night hopes—is real enough to have a guest list full of people who usually don’t show up unless it benefits them.
And maybe that’s true tonight.
The Blackwell name opened doors.
I won’t pretend it didn’t.
But if those doors lead to funding, resources, and real help for single mothers who need a hand up—not a handout—then I’ll walk through them without guilt.
I finish getting ready slowly, hands steadier than I expected. The dress hangs perfectly against my body—deep green, rich and elegant, the fabric flowing softly when I move. It’s the kind of dress that feels powerful without trying too hard. Strong. Confident. Like the woman I’m becoming.
When I make my way downstairs, the house is quiet.
Langston is waiting near the entryway, jacket already on, his phone forgotten in his hand.
He looks up.
And the way his eyes change—soften, darken, focus entirely on me—steals my breath.
For a second, he doesn’t say anything. Just looks at me like I’m something rare. Something precious.
