Her eyes flash, something like panic or anger or pure fear surfacing for the first time. “You knew from the beginning,” she says. “I told you I don’t do relationships. Not like this.”
My jaw tightens. I flex my fingers, releasing the tension before it can show in my voice.
“You say that,” I answer, still calm, “but you’ve been in one with me for months.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Is it not true?”
She looks away. She’s shaking now, small tremors she’s trying to control.
Every instinct tells me to stand, to pull her close, to make her see what we have. But I stay on one knee, the ring box still open, my heart pounding against my ribs like it’s trying to break free.
“I’m not trying to trap you,” I say, and my voice comes out lower now, rougher. “I’m not asking you to play house because it’s tidy before the baby comes. I’m asking because I love you and I want you.”
“I can’t do this,” she says.
Something cracks in my chest. The pain is sharp and immediate, but I keep my expression neutral. “Can’t say yes right now?” I ask. “Or can’t even think about it?”
“It’s all too much,” she says, shaking her head. “Work. The show. The baby. Everyone having opinions about how I should do everything. I feel like I’m barely keeping my head above water and you’re asking me to stand at the altar again and—I have to go.”
The mention of the altar makes my stomach drop.
“I’m not him,” I say softly, and it takes everything I have to keep the frustration out of my voice. “I’m not going to disappear. I’m not going to leave you standing there alone.”
She’s breathing fast now. I can see her pulling away one piece at a time.
“I need space,” she says suddenly.
The words land like a punch to the gut. My hand tightens around the ring box, the velvet crushing under my grip.
“Space?” I repeat.
“I need to think,” she says. “I need to figure out how to be a mom without also trying to be someone’s fiancée. I barely recognize myself right now. I can’t make a decision like this when I don’t even know who I am in this version of my life.”
I stand slowly, closing the ring box with a quiet snap. The sound has a feeling of finality to it.
“Nat—”
She pushes to her feet, slower than she used to, one hand braced on the arm of the couch, the other over her stomach. “I think we might need to take a step back,” she adds, and that’s the one that really cuts. “Just for a while. So I’m not making choices because there’s a clock ticking.”
My throat feels tight. I swallow hard, force myself to nod.
“For how long?” I ask, and my voice comes out quieter than I intended.
“I don’t know.” Her eyes gloss again.
The not knowing is worse than a clean no. It leaveseverything suspended, uncertain, like I’m supposed to just wait while she decides if I’m worth the risk.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I really am.”
She reaches for her bag, fingers fumbling with the strap.
My chest aches. Every muscle in my body wants to move, to stop her, to make her stay and talk this through. But I stand there, holding the ring box, watching her pull away from everything we’ve built.
“I never wanted to make you feel cornered,” I say, and I have to work to keep my voice level. “That wasn’t the point of tonight.”
“I know,” she says, and for the first time since I opened the ring box, she steps closer, resting a hand on my arm. The touch is brief but real. “You were trying to give me something solid. I’m just not there yet.”
