Headlights sweep across the front windows. I wipe my palms on a towel, take one slow breath, and walk to the door. When I open it, she’s there on the porch in leggings and one of her oversized blazer jackets, hand automatically resting at the top of her stomach like it’s second nature. Her hair is down, the ends curling from the day, her bag slipping off her shoulder.
“Hey,” I say, and this time my voice comes out even. I step forward to grab her bag.
“Hey yourself,” she says, a small smile tugging at her mouth. “Something smells good.”
Her gaze slips past me into the house and I watch as her eyes dart across the space looking at the candles, the flowers, and the decorated table.
She hesitates in the doorway. “What’s all this?”
“Dinner,” I say. “Come in.”
She steps over the threshold and, for a second, her shoulders tense, like her body clocks something before her brain catches up.
“It’s Valentine’s Day,” Isay quietly.
“I didn’t know we did Valentine’s Day.”
“We can start.”
Something shifts in her expression and her shoulders relax. “Okay,” she says finally. “The flowers are beautiful.”
“Let me grab your drink, then we’ll sit.”
I get the sparkling cider and pour it into flutes.
“You look nice,” I say, setting her glass down.
She glances up at me, surprised. “My work clothes?”
“You look good in everything.”
Color warms her cheeks. “You clean up nicely too.”
I serve the salad, salmon, the rice, and the roasted vegetables. She watches me for a second, then looks down at her plate.
“Did you work today?” she asks, looking at the spread like maybe I didn’t cook all of this.
“I did,” I say. I take the seat across from her.
Her eyes flick to mine, then away. She picks up her fork, takes a careful bite. “This is really good,” she says. “I’m impressed.”
She tells me about her day, and I share mine. It feels easy. Familiar. The thing I want every night for the rest of my life.
When we’re finished, I clear the plates and serve her favorite bakery cake I picked up on the way home from the office.
She raises an eyebrow when she sees it. “Okay, now I’m suspicious,” she says. “What did you do?”
“Nothing,” I say. “Yet.”
She narrows her eyes at the “yet,” but she takes a bite and closes her eyes for a second, clearly appreciating the sugar hit.
We finish, and for a moment I just watch her. The way her hand moves absently over her belly while she listens. The way she looks around my house like she’s starting to get familiar with it.
“Come sit with me,” I say, nodding toward the living room. “I want to talk to you.”
There it is. The shift. Her shoulders straighten. Her hand stills. She hears what I didn’t say.
“Okay,” she says carefully.
