She clenches around me as she cries out my name and I follow her over, spilling into her with a groan that tears out of my chest. She collapses onto me, both of us breathing hard, slick with sweat, tangled together in the dim light.
“Don’t move,” I murmur, kissing her shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”
I slip into the bathroom, clean myself up, wet a washcloth with warm water. When I come back, she’s sprawled on the bed, flushed and gorgeous and mine. I take care of her gently, then toss the cloth aside and climb back in, pulling her against my chest.
She fits perfectly there, her head tucked under my chin, my fingers threading through her hair in slow, soothing strokes. We lie there, hearts slowing, her weight a perfect anchor.
“You nervous about tomorrow?”
“Terrified.”
“Just remember, they wanted you. They’re lucky to have you.”
She lifts her head, eyes soft as she studies me. “Thanks for saying that.”
I brush a strand of hair from her face. “You’re going to be incredible tomorrow. I can’t wait to hear all about it.”
She settles back against my chest, and I hold her close as I think about how I don’t want to be without her in my arms every night. I don’t want mornings where I wake up and she’s not there. I want this for as long as she’ll let me have it.
twenty-two
. . .
Natalie
The table is coveredin fresh stacks of neon sticky pads, three untouched packs of dry-erase markers, and a whiteboard so clean you just know it’s going to squeak when someone writes on it.
It smells like lavender sanitizer and the faint bitterness of coffee. The room has that unmistakable first-day energy, where every chair is still pushed in and the air feels expectant, like the walls are waiting to inhale their first argument about character arcs.
Rebecca is already at the head of the table with her laptop open, tapping notes into a document like she’s been here since dawn. She looks up the second I step inside, her smile warm and sharp at the same time.
I’m hyper-conscious of everything. The way my blazer sits over my stomach. The curve that’s harder to hide now, even in carefully chosen layers. I wore black on black today, strategically loose but not obviously maternity. Professional. Put together. Don’t look at my midsection.
My heart does a nervous little flip as I cross the threshold, trying to hold myself with confidence while also wondering if everyone can see what I’m trying so hard to conceal. This is it. The room I’ve dreamed about being in for seven years. The show I created, the characters I built from nothing, finally becoming real.
And I’m terrified they’re going to see me as a liability before they see me as a writer.
I want to prove I belong here first. Want them to know I can pitch great ideas, that I can break story, that I’m worth the risk FlixPix took on me. Then maybe, when they already know what I can do, the pregnancy won’t feel like a complication.
Just a few weeks. That’s all I need. A few weeks to show them I’m serious, that I’m talented, that I earned this seat at this table.
Then I’ll tell them.
I shut the door behind me and take the seat she gestures toward, forcing my shoulders back, my chin up.
“You ready?” she asks.
“I think so,” I say, though my pulse is doing its best impression of a hummingbird.
“Good. Chaos starts in about ten minutes.”
I pour myself a glass of water and start thumbing through the printed script in front of me. Episode One.
Bernard comes in first, with his spiral notebook. He’s in his mid-fifties and wears wire-rimmed glasses and a sweater vest over a button-down. He’s the kind of guy who’s been writing TV since I was a baby. He’s worked on three critically acclaimed dramas and has that quiet, observant energythat makes you think twice before pitching something half-baked.
Priya follows, balancing her laptop and an enormous Stanley cup. Early thirties, dark hair in a sleek ponytail, wearing a blazer that somehow looks effortlessly cool instead of corporate. She’s written on two FlixPix shows and has this sharp, fast-talking energy that makes every pitch sound like the best idea you’ve ever heard.
David walks in looking over-caffeinated. He’s in his late twenties, a UCLA film school grad, and this is his first staff writer job. You can tell he’s trying to absorb everything. He’s got that eager, prove-myself energy I recognize because I have it too.
