Then something shifts in his eyes, something warm, a little stunned, like he still can’t quite believe we’re here. That I’m here.
Henry grabs his jacket. “All right, lovebirds. I’m getting lunch. Try not to turn my office into your make-out lounge.”
I roll my eyes. Jack raises an eyebrow. “Think he’d really be mad?”
“Only if we left evidence.”
His laugh lines crinkle as he steps deeper into the office, arms sliding around my waist. “I love hearing you talk like that.”
My toes curl in my shoes. I look at him and whisper, “And I love you.”
It’s the first time I’ve said it that way—casual, certain, no hiding.
He doesn’t say anything right away. He just hugs me tighter, resting his chin lightly on my head.
And in that moment, I know the silence is full of everything we mean.
***
That night, we make pasta and garlic bread, bumping hips in the kitchen like a couple in a romantic comedy. Jack stands behind me while I stir the sauce, arms draped lazily around my waist, lips brushing my neck.
“You keep cooking like this,” he murmurs, “and I might have to marry you.”
I freeze mid-stir.
He straightens behind me as the air shifts. “Beth—”
I turn to face him, playful but steady. “You thinking of proposing over spaghetti?”
His shoulders lower slightly. “Would that be so bad?”
I laugh, the tension melting as fast as it appeared. “Only if you think carbs are romantic.”
His smile shifts to softer, more serious. “I’m not kidding. I want this. I want you.”
My throat tightens. “Jack…”
He steps forward and cradles my face. “I won’t rush you. When you’re ready, I’ll be here. I’ll always be here.”
My eyes sting. I nod. “Okay.”
He kisses me, tender and sure, and that’s when I know. We’re not just playing house.
This is it.
Later, curled on the couch with a movie we’re not really watching, he holds me close. I press my cheek to his chest and whisper, “I love you.”
His arms wrap tighter around me. “I love you, too, sweetheart.”
And for once, love doesn’t feel like a risk.
It feels like home.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
BETH
The baby shower invitation arrives on a Thursday afternoon, wedged between unpaid bills and glossy catalogs Jack dumped on the kitchen counter. I almost toss the pile into the junk drawer, but a delicate pink envelope catches my eye. The swirl of cursive lettering across the front feels like a slap.
