NORA
It Wasn’t Supposed to Be Serious
Iwake up reaching for him.
Just a reflex—stupid, hopeful muscle memory. My hand lands on a cold pillow and empty sheets.
I sigh and flop onto my back, blinking at the ceiling like it holds answers. It doesn’t. It just blinks back, blank and quiet and far too still.
The night without Max felt longer than it should’ve. I kept expecting to hear his low, sleep-rough voice whispering nonsense beside me. Or the scratch of his stubble against my shoulder.
I miss him.
It’s not just the sex, though—okay, that’s part of it. But mostly, it’s thehimnessof him. The casual chaos, the snarky grin, the safety of his arms. The weight of his presence.
I pull my phone from the nightstand, thumb hovering for a second before I tap out a message.
Nora:
You free tonight? I miss you. Thinking I could come over. Maybe bring dinner? Or myself in nothing but heels. TBD.
I bite my lip, rereading it twice before I hit send.
Almost immediately, those three little dots appear.
Max:
I missed you too. See you tonight at 8.00 :)
I grin into my pillow like a total idiot.
***
The moment I walk through the library doors, I feel lighter.
My keys jingle as I unlock the staff room, shrug off my coat, and slide into my usual routine. Morning returns, interlibrary loan requests, a broken printer tray that refuses to cooperate (again). Everything is just as it always is.
Except me.
There’s something different humming beneath my skin now. A low, persistent buzz. A secret.
I’m pregnant.
The words don’t hit with panic anymore. Not today. Not like yesterday, when I stared at the test until the lines blurred and my whole body felt like it was made of static.
I shelve picture books in the children’s section, pausing when I spot a tiny, dog-eared copy ofGoodnight Moon. My fingers brush the spine. I picture a tiny hand pulling it off a shelf, a sleepy voice echoing mine during bedtime stories.
And just like that, a little spark flares in my chest. Joy. Wild and unexpected.
Later, during story hour, I watch a toddler with curls like question marks wobble across the rug and plop down in her mother’s lap. Shesqueals at the dragon puppet I’m holding, and I find myself grinning—really grinning.
Another spark.
Back at the front desk, I’m scanning returns when a little girl toddles up and proudly hands me her library card like it’s made of gold. Her dad winks, mouthingfirst time. I play along, make a big deal out of it, and the kid beams. I wonder if someday, I’ll be doing this with my own child. Signing up for a card. ReadingThe Very Hungry Caterpillar. Explaining how books can be friends.
The thought makes my throat tighten—but in the best way.
I can’t wait to tell Max.
