I think back to when Max first brought it up—after one of my doctor’s appointments. We were walking back from the clinic, the weather crisp and windy, leaves tumbling across the sidewalk like they had somewhere to be. Max had been quiet the whole way—his hand gripping mine a little tighter than usual.
At the crosswalk, he finally spoke. Not with his usual teasing grin, but with something softer. Something unguarded.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said slowly, “and I want you to move in with me.”
I blinked up at him. “Move in?”
He nodded. “I want you there. I miss you every second you’re not around. And I want to raise our child together. In a home.Ourhome.”
His eyes had dropped to my belly then, and I could tell he was nervous. But I wanted to say yes more than anything.
So I did. Right there in the middle of the sidewalk, with my heart stuck somewhere between my lungs and my ribs, I kissed him so hard a passerby actually clapped.
“In my defense,” he says now, sliding an arm around me, “I thought we’d hire professionals.”
“Wedidhire professionals.”
“Yeah, and that one just put a box labeled ‘baby stuff’ under what looks like your dumbbells.”
“They’re books,” I reply, smirking. “And they’renotdumb.”
He kisses the top of my head again, and I melt a little. He smells like coffee, dust, and that Max-scent I can never quite define.
“You good?” he asks quietly.
“Tired,” I admit. “Achy. My ankles have declared independence. I just want to lie down and not move until the baby’s in kindergarten.”
Max chuckles. “Noted. Minimal movement. Maximum pampering. We’ll deal with the nursery later. But first, I want to show you something.” He kisses the top of my head, mischievous. “Can you handle just one more flight of stairs?”
I groan. “Is it stairs to a nap?”
“Sort of,” he says, gently steering me toward the staircase that leads to the upper loft. “But better.”
I shoot him a skeptical look, but follow—slowly, clutching the rail and muttering something about betrayal. He stays close, hand ready at my back, and by the time we reach the landing, I’m winded and suspicious.
“What is this?” I ask, eyeing the closed double doors at the end of the hall. “Are you hiding a second kitten up here?”
Max grins, all smug mystery. “Open it.”
I push the doors open.
And freeze.
Sunlight floods in through wide skylights, pouring across polished wood floors and walls lined with—shelves. Floor-to-ceiling built-in bookshelves, every inch filled with titles I recognize. Some are oldfriends. Some are rare editions. A few are clearly leather-bound collector’s pieces that have no business being in the same room as my ratty paperbacks.
A plush velvet reading chair anchors the corner beneath the largest window, flanked by a brass reading lamp and a side table already stacked with tea coasters and a jar of my favorite licorice. There's a cozy daybed under another window, blankets folded just so, and near the far wall—a rolling library ladder.
I blink. “Max…”
He leans against the doorframe, hands in his pockets like he didn’t just casually create heaven on earth. “Welcome to your new library. Or book lair. Or magical paper cave—whatever you want to call it.”
My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “How—? When—?” The words don’t come.
I step toward the shelves like I’m approaching something sacred, eyes wide, fingers trembling. My throat tightens. “I can’t believe you did all this.”
“I just wanted you to have a space that’s yours,” he says softly. “A quiet corner of the world—safe, cozy, and filled with everything you love.”
I turn and wrap my arms around him, pressing my face into his chest. My voice is muffled when I say, “This is the most beautiful thing anyone’s ever done for me.”
