“It’s perfect,” he whispers.
The words hit low in my stomach, steadying me in a way I didn’t know I needed.
Heleans down, pressing his forehead against mine for the briefest second, and then releases me. My pulse is still racing as we sit across from each other at the little table, steam curling up from the coffee cups between us.
It’s… nice. Almost normal.
“So,” he says after a few quiet minutes, his voice low and smooth, “what’s your plan for the day?”
I glance up at him, chewing on my lip. “Work. I have a shift at the Reserve later, so I’ll need to go home and get ready.”
His brows lift, that stern, businesslike look sliding over his features—the one I’ve seen him use on people who probably make six figures and still scramble to please him.
“Langston,” I warn, throwing my hands up before he even opens his mouth. “I can’t just quit. I need to work. I need something to do.”
He doesn’t snap back. Doesn’t lecture me. Just watches me quietly, and then asks, “If you could do anything, sweetheart—anything at all—what would it be?”
I blink. “Anything?”
He nods once, still calm.
My first instinct is to lie. To toss out something easy, something that sounds polished and respectable. But instead, I find myself saying the truth.
“I’d help single mothers,” I say softly. “Women who are trying to get back on their feet. My mom used to have me help out atshelters and camps when I was a kid. It taught me that sometimes women just… need someone to believe in them again.”
He leans back in his chair, watching me like he’s memorizing every word.
There’s no judgment in his eyes. No teasing. Just quiet understanding—and something else I can’t quite name.
Maybe pride.
Maybe respect.
Whatever it is, it makes my chest feel warm, and for the first time, I don’t feel like I have to fill the silence with nervous words.
I just sit there, sipping coffee across from my husband, and let him look at me like I’m someone worth knowing.
For a long time, he doesn’t say anything. Just sits there, staring at me with that unreadable expression. His coffee sits untouched, steam curling up between us.
“What?” I ask, fidgeting with the edge of the napkin. “Did I say something wrong?”
His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close. “No, sweetheart. You said something honest.”
The wordsweetheartdoes that thing again—it slips right through my chest and finds a home somewhere inconvenient.
He leans back, fingers tapping against the table. “You want to help women rebuild their lives. That’s what you said?”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “But it’s not exactly a career path. It’s just something I wish I could do without worrying about rent or bills.”
Langston hums, low and thoughtful. “You could.”
I blink. “What?”
He meets my eyes, calm and certain. “You could actually do it. Build something real. A foundation, a program—whatever it takes. I have the resources, and you clearly have the heart for it.”
The words hit harder than I expect. I laugh a little, nervous. “Langston, that’s… a really nice thought, but I’m not you. I don’t have a boardroom or a team of lawyers or—”
“Then we’ll get you one.”
