“It’s practical,” I cut in immediately, reflexive. “You’re pregnant. You’re going to be tired. Sick. You’ll have appointments. Your apartment…” I pause, irritation rising at the image I’ve created of her small place. Thinking of her alone in the middle of the night if something happens makes me uneasy. “It’s not ideal.”
She props herself up on her elbow, staring at me like I’ve sprouted a second head. “So, you want me to live in your penthouse because my apartment is ‘not ideal’?”
“Yes.”
“Do you hear yourself?”
I drag my hand down my face, exhale slowly. “April.”
She studies me, then looks around the room as though she’s seeing it for the first time realizing it’s too much. I can see it hit her.
“This place is a man cave,” she says finally, voice faintly accusatory. “It’s all glass and steel and, I don’t know,billionaire sadness.”
“Billionaire sadness?” I repeat, unimpressed.
“Yes,” she says, warming to it because she’s a brat. “It’s like if a luxury watch were an apartment.”
I pinch the side of her waist again, sharper this time. She squeals in delight and swats at me. “Then change it,” I say, and the words come out before I’ve fully processed them. “Decorate. Buy things. Fill it with whatever you want.”
She pauses. “Whatever I want?”
“Yes.”
“Like throw pillows?”
“If you must.”
“Mismatched thrifted trinkets?”
“God, I’m going to regret this, but yes.”
“A nursery?”
The word lands between us like a stone in water. I don’t flinch. Not this time. “The baby will obviously need somewhere to sleep,” I say simply. “We can design it however you want.”
She stares at me, lips parted, as if she’s waiting for me to laugh and reveal it’s a joke. When I don’t, her expression turns into something quieter. Unsteady. “You’re serious,” she whispers.
“I’m serious.” I reach out and tuck her hair behind her ear, thumb lingering against her cheek in a way I can’t seem to stop doing tonight. “It makes sense. It’s close to work. It’s secure. There’s staff if you need anything. There’s a home office you can use when you don’t feel like commuting. You won’t have to…” I stop myself, but it’s too late. The thought is already there, sharp as glass. “You won’t have to be alone when you’re sick.”
Her throat works on a swallow. “I’m not going to die of morning sickness.”
“I know,” I say, voice rougher now. “That’s not the point.”
“And what is the point?” she asks, quieter.
My jaw tightens. Because if I answer honestly, I don’t know what doors it opens. I don’t know where it leads if I admit I’ll probably like the sound of her laugh in my house, the idea of her walking barefoot across my floors, and the thought of her curled against me when she feels like hell. I slide my arm around her again, pulling her down onto my chest until she can’t see my face as clearly. Cowardly and Practical.
“The point,” I say carefully, “is that you shouldn’t have to do any of this alone. Not the pregnancy. Not the appointments. Not the bad days. Not any of it.”
She goes still in my arms. I feel her inhale then exhale. Her fingers touch my side, hesitant, then firmer, like she’s anchoring herself. It’s a simple gesture, but it hits me like a punch.
For years, the only person who touched me without wanting something was Natalie. Even though that ended with lies and betrayal, I told myself that meant love was a weakness I’d outgrown. Wanting anyone that much was just setting myself up to be gutted again. But this feels different. It’s fast, for one. Too fast. Like stepping on ice you haven’t tested. It shouldn’t hold, but somehow it does. Maybe it’s because she’s pregnant, and there’s a life between us now. The stakes have changed in a way I can’t pretend are just contractual.
I stare out at the dark skyline through the windows and listen to April breath against my chest. I begin to wonder if I’ve always been doomed to feel like this the moment I let myself touch her. I’ve felt something like it before once, with Natalie. It’s that slow, inevitable slide into thinking someone is your home. But this isn’t the same, and Natalie never gave me this. Natalie neverbecamethis.
April lifts her head slightly. “Are you okay?” The concern in her voice makes my throat tighten. I don’t answer it directly. I can’t. Instead, I kiss her, softly, and she melts into it like she’s been waiting for permission. For a while, I’m not the CEO with an heir-producing problem and she isn’t my assistant I’ve contracted to help me with my problem. We’re just two people in a bed, tangled together, trading quiet jokes and half-murmured stories, laughing softly into each other’s mouths like it’s normal. Like it’s real.
A thought creeps in, dangerous and heavy:I think I want us to be a family.It scares the hell out of me because I still haven’t told her about the trust clause. I forgot that part and it could turn this from “move in” to something much heavier, much more binding.
