Moving In
Afew months later…
There are boxes everywhere.
One of the movers brushes past me with a crate labeledKitchen, Probably, while another mutters something under his breath as he tries to maneuver around a teetering tower of boxes.
“Careful with that,” Max calls out automatically—again. I think it’s the sixth time in the past ten minutes.
I glance at Max, who’s standing in the middle of the chaos like a frazzled tour manager trying to wrangle a band made entirely of moving boxes and bubble wrap.
“You’ve told them to be careful with the blender, the humidifier, and my annotatedJane Eyre,” I say, dry and amused. “But not once with the actual pregnant woman carrying her own box.”
He whirls around like I just announced I was skydiving.
I’m standing in leggings and a stretched-out T-shirt that no longer quite fits over my belly. My hair’s in a bun that’s half business, halfcollapse, and I’m holding a single, very manageable box. Full of bookmarks.
“Give me that,” Max says, marching over with his signature blend of rockstar authority and boyfriend panic. “You’re not lifting a damn thing, librarian.”
I sigh and hand it over, rolling my eyes. “It’s literally just bookmarks.”
“Bookmarks deserve protection,” he says, straight-faced. “What if you strain something alphabetizing them?”
I laugh. Despite the chaos, the sore feet, the general feeling of being a human nesting doll—I laugh.
I hear him set the box down, the soft sound of his footsteps crossing the room. Then his hands slide around me—gentle, steady, grounding. He rests them on the curve of my belly, and I close my eyes for a moment.
“You’re staring again,” I murmur, even though I don’t mind.
“I’m not,” he lies.
“You so are. I can feel your face doing the gooey thing.”
He laughs. “Can’t help it.”
I lean back into him, letting my head find its usual spot on his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You’re radiant and—”
I groan. “Don’t say glowing. I swear to God, Max—”
“I wasn’t going to say glowing.” He nuzzles into my hair, his voice all warmth and adoration. “I was going to say shining.”
That makes me laugh—a quiet, tired sound that’s exactly what I need. “You sap.”
He kisses my temple. Soft. Reverent.
I swear, this man loves me in a way that makes me feel seen. Beautiful. Even like this.
Over the past few months, we’ve only grown closer. We’re a team now—steady, sure. We know who we trust, and who we don’t.
When his father tries to reach out, we either ignore it or let Vivienne handle it. She’s a force of nature, I’ve come to realize. Fierce. Unshakable.
We’re still wrapped up in each other when a loud crash echoes from the hallway.
Max mutters a creative curse and steps in front of me like he’s about to wrestle a wardrobe.
“This is your fault,” I say, leaning into him. “You told me—and I quote—‘Move in whenever, it'll be chill.’ Now I’m days away from my due date and it’s definitely notchill.”
