We move to the couch. She settles into the corner, angled slightly toward me, her feet tucked under her, one hand at her side, the other resting over the baby. I sit close, but not crowding her.
For a second, I just take her in. The woman I’m in love with sitting in my living room, carrying our daughter.
“I’ve been thinking a lot,” I begin.
Her mouth tips knowingly. “That sounds serious.”
“It is,” I admit. “But I’d like you to hear me out.”
“Okay.”
“When we first talked about this—about keeping things simple, being co-parents, not making it more complicated than it had to be—I agreed. Mostly, I didn’t want to push you into anything. I didn’t want you to feel trapped with me just because of the baby.”
She swallows, eyes on my face.
“But since before Christmas, we’ve been living something completely different,” I continue. “I pick you up from work. We eat dinner together. We fall asleep together. We wake up together. We talk about our days. We’ve planned her room.Her name. Her future. That’s not casual, Nat. That’s building a life together.”
Her eyes shine a little, but she doesn’t look away.
“You didn’t say no when I asked you to think about moving in,” I say quietly. “You said you needed time, but babe, we’re running out of time, and I’d like to make it official, to make it real.”
I stand, my heartbeat steady now instead of jumping, and cross to the drawer by the stairs where I left the ring box. When I turn back, she’s watching me, completely still.
“Jake,” she says, and my name sounds more like a warning.
I drop to one knee in front of her. Her hand flies to her mouth.
“Let me say it,” I ask. “Just once. All the way through.”
She’s frozen, so I take advantage of the silence.
“I’m in love with you,” I say. The words land between us, heavy and clear. “Not because this got complicated or because there’s a baby on the way. I love you. I see the person I want to come home to. The person I want to fight with and make up with and fall asleep next to every single night. When I’m with you, I’m steadier. Better. Calmer in a way I didn’t know I could be. You’re the first person I’ve ever been with where nothing feels performative or fragile. It just feels right. It feels like home. You make my life feel…whole.”
A tear slips down her cheek. She doesn’t move to wipe it away.
“I love our life,” I say. “The one we’re already living.And I want to build on it. I want you and the baby here. With me. Not as my roommate. Not as my co-parent who happens to share my bed. As my partner. As my wife.”
I open the box. The ring catches the light. It’s simple, elegant, something I could picture on her hand from the first moment I saw it.
“Natalie,” I say, my voice steady, “will you marry me?”
For a moment, everything in the room goes very quiet. Even the clock on the wall seems to pause.
Her eyes are locked on the ring, then on me. I watch the shift I know too well. Her shoulders tighten, her eyes look vacant, and her lips shift into a forced grin.
“Jake,” she whispers, and my name sounds like it hurts.
Something cold settles in my gut, but I keep my voice steady.
“You don’t have to answer this second,” I say gently. “But I needed you to know where I am. I needed you to know this isn’t an accident I’m just managing. This is what I want. You. Her. Us. Permanently.”
Her throat works around words that take a moment to form.
“I thought we agreed,” she says finally, her voice rough, “that we were just co-parenting. That we weren’t doing this.”
The words hit harder than they should. We’ve been living together in everything but name for months. I’ve been inside her, held her while she slept, felt our daughter kick against my hand. And she’s calling it co-parenting.
I swallow hard, force myself to stay calm. “What wesaid,” I correct quietly, “and what we’ve been living aren’t the same thing.”
