She shifts to look up at me. “Is that a compliment or an insult?”
“Definitely a compliment.” I press a kiss to her forehead. “You're magnificent when you're in your element.”
She makes a soft sound, somewhere between embarrassment and pleasure, and burrows closer into my side.
“What about you?” I ask. “When did you know?”
She's quiet for so long I think she might not answer. When she finally speaks, her voice is thoughtful.
“I think part of me knew at Thanksgiving,” she says. “Seeing you with your family, how much you cared for them... it scared me how much I wanted to be part of that. But I didn't want to admit it.”
I tighten my arm around her, remembering how close we came to never finding our way back to each other.
“I'm glad you gave me another chance,” I say quietly.
“I'm glad you wanted one.”
We fall silent, watching raindrops race down the windowpane. The bookshop creaks and settles around us, old wood and paper sighing in the quiet.
“Oh,” Delilah says suddenly, sitting up. “I almost forgot to show you.”
She reaches over to the small side table where she keeps her sketchbook and pulls it onto her lap. There's a slight hesitation before she opens it, a flash of vulnerability crossing her face.
“What is it?” I ask, genuinely curious. Delilah rarely shares her personal sketches—the ones she doesn't do for class or work.
“It's stupid,” she warns, but she's already flipping through pages.
“I doubt that.”
She finds what she's looking for and pauses, chewing her bottom lip. “I was just messing around. Thinking about... stuff.”
She hands me the sketchbook, and I find myself looking at an incredibly detailed architectural drawing. A house—modern but warm, with clean lines and large windows. But what catches my attention are the specific details.
There's a home gym tucked into one wing with enough space for weights and equipment. A garage workshop with skylights and what looks like custom storage for tools. An outdoor kitchen on a deck that wraps around to a fire pit. A master bathroom with a shower big enough for two.
It's not just any house. It's a house designed for someone specific.
For me.
“You put in a gym,” I say, my voice oddly thick.
“And a workshop,” she points out. “For your projects. I know you like tinkering with stuff.”
I flip to the next page, where she's drawn the interior layout. There's a spacious kitchen with an island—perfect for cooking. A living room with built-in bookshelves that stretch to the ceiling. An office with a drafting table by the window, clearly meant for her.
But what stops me cold is the detail in the margins. She's written notes:
Troy's gym- north-facing for cooler workouts
Extra high shower head because he's stupidly tall
Kitchen island big enough for his cooking experiments
Skylight above bed for stargazing
“You've been planning,”I say, something warm blooming in my chest. “For us.”
She shrugs, but her cheeks flush pink. “It's just sketches. I was bored.”
