And I’m going to tell him tonight.
The thought makes my pulse flutter, but not in the way it did before—not the panic or the oh-God-what-if-this-ruins-everything fear. That part has eased, settled.
Now, it’s something else. Excitement. Joy.
Hope.
I know Max. Under the tattoos and the sarcasm and the whole broody rockstar thing, he’s steady. Protective. Kind in ways nobody could miss. I’ve seen the softness when he makes Melody her ridiculous tuna snacks, or when he reads over my shoulder and pretends not to be invested in the end of a romance novel.
He’s going to be shocked. Definitely. Probably swear, possibly pace. Maybe rub the back of his neck like he’s physically trying to reboot.
But he won’t run.
Because I know this man. And I know what’s been building between us.
It’s not just heat anymore. Not just chemistry. It’s in the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention. The way he reaches for my hand automatically, like it's second nature now. The wayhe listens when I talk about library programming like it matters to him because it matters to me.
I think—no, Iknow—I’m in love with him.And I’m pretty sure he loves me, too.
So tonight has to be special.
As soon as I’m off work, I race home to get ready for our dinner at his place
I pull out a dress I’ve worn once—soft rosé, silky to the touch, with a neckline that dips just enough to make me nervous and excited all at once. It hugs my curves without trying too hard. I smooth it over my hips, then step back to check the mirror. Not bad.
My hair’s still damp from the shower, curling into soft waves around my shoulders. I swipe on some mascara, a little tinted lip balm, and spritz the perfume he once told me made me smell “dangerously good.”
As I fasten a pair of earrings—tiny silver stars—I catch my own reflection and pause.
I look… radiant. Nervous. Hopeful.
Like a woman in love. Like a woman about to tell the man she loves that he’s going to be a father.
***
The train screeches to a halt. I step off, my boots clicking against the platform, and exhale a long breath. The kind you take before walking into something that changes everything.
Max’s penthouse is just a few blocks away.
When I arrive, the elevator doors slide open with a soft whoosh, and I step into Max’s penthouse—arms full of paper bags and nerves.
The familiar warmth hits me first—low jazz playing from hidden speakers, the rich scent of cedar and something darker, spicier, unmistakably him. His place always surprises me, no matter how many times I’ve been here. You expect cold, sleek, high-end bachelor vibes from a rockstar. But this is soft chaos. Blankets draped over the back of the leather couch. A stack of vinyl records on the coffee table. Melody’s toys strewn like landmines across the floor.
I toe off my boots and call out, “I come bearing gifts!”
My voice echoes slightly off the marble floors. For a second, there’s no answer, and my stomach dips—stupid, irrational. He probably just didn’t hear me.
Then—“Back here!”
Relief washes over me as I carry the bags through the open-plan living room and into the kitchen, where Max leans against the counter, sleeves pushed up, a glass of something amber in his hand. His hair’s messy like he’s been running a hand through it too much, and his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
Still, when he sees me, something flickers there—soft and stunned, like I surprised him.
“Wow. You look… amazing.” He leans over to kiss my cheek. His hand lingers on my waist for a beat longer than necessary, and I press into it without thinking. This part of us feels easy now—undeniable. Natural.
I unload the containers onto the kitchen island—pasta, garlic bread, a caprese salad that didn’t survive the subway ride entirely upright. He lifts a lid and inhales.
“Jesus, that smells good. Marry me.”
