“Wait. I have something for you too.”
His eyebrows lift. “You do?”
“Don’t look so surprised.” I climb out of bed, grabbing his shirt from the floor and pulling it on as I cross tomy closet. I reach up to the top shelf, behind a stack of notebooks, and pull down a small, gift-wrapped package of my own. I climb back onto the bed, sitting cross-legged in front of him. “Here.”
He takes it carefully, like he’s afraid it might break. “Nat, you didn’t have to.”
“Neither did you.” His eyes linger on me, moving around my face like he’s trying to unravel a hidden meaning.
He grins and tears through the paper. Inside is a leather-bound journal, with thick, creamy pages and a strap that wraps around to keep it closed. His initials are embossed in gold on the bottom right corner.
“Nat,” he says quietly, running his fingers over the leather.
“I know you keep everything on your phone and your laptop,” I say, suddenly nervous. “But I thought maybe you’d want something for the important stuff. For Isla. You could write to her, or about her, or just whatever you want.”
He opens it, and I watch his face as he sees what I wrote on the first page.
For Jake. May you fill these pages with all the moments I know you’ll never want to forget.
– N
His eyes lift to mine, and they’re bright.
“This is perfect,” he says, his voice rough. “Thank you.”
He sets the journal carefully on the nightstand, thenpulls me into his arms, holding me tight against his chest. I feel his heartbeat under my cheek, steady and strong.
“I love it,” he murmurs into my hair. “I love that you thought about this. About me.”
I love you.
The thought fills my head before I can manage it or control how I want to feel in this moment. The words sit right there, pressing against the back of my teeth, wanting out.
But I’m not ready. Not yet.
So I pull back slightly, clearing my throat, forcing myself back to practical territory. “Is your mom excited to visit?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says. “And she’s really excited to meet you,” he adds, his voice softer.
I bite back a smile. Meeting someone’s mother is…big.
“My mom is excited to meet you too,” I say. “And your mom. She’s making enough food to feed half of Los Angeles.”
The baby decides that’s the moment to give one solid kick against the inside of my ribs. I wince and press a hand there.
“You okay?” he asks, instantly alert.
“She’s clearly pro–grandmother summit,” I say, exhaling. “Or just protesting how long we stayed in bed.”
He slips his hand over mine, palm warm against the stretch of skin. “She’s making her opinion known.”
“Wonder where she gets that from,” I mutter.
He leans in and kisses me, slow and steady, like he has time, like he’s not about to run to the airport, like we’re not both suddenly standing at the edge of a very big step.
When we pull back, he rests his forehead against mine. “See you at your mom’s house later?”
“Yeah.”
