27.0 #3
And then it hit him. His throat worked once, twice. He blinked — that slow, uneven blink that said he was trying hard not to let his eyes burn. A breath escaped him, shaky, caught between a laugh and something heavier.
When he finally moved, it was fast. He dropped to his knees and opened his arms wide, and Alina ran straight into them. He caught her easily, hugging her tight enough to lift her off the ground.
I could hear the breath he let out — part laugh, part exhale, part everything he hadn't said since the moment he found out about her.
He buried his face in her curls, whispering something I couldn't make out. When he pulled back, his eyes were glassy, the corners crinkled from smiling too hard.
"You made my whole year, you know that?" he said softly.
She grinned, arms around his neck. "You're welcome."
I stood there in the doorway, throat thick, watching them. She was still talking — about balloons, the red bow, the cake — her words tumbling out in that unfiltered way only kids can.
And him — he just kept looking at her like she was something he never thought he'd get to hold.
When his gaze finally lifted, it found mine.
No words. Just that look — grateful, stunned, a little wrecked — like the world had gone quiet just for the three of us.
We moved into the kitchen together, the three of us. The lights were dim, the air warm with the smell of frosting and candle wax.
Brooks set Alina on the counter so she could "help" light the candles. She took her job very seriously — tongue between her teeth, hands steady as she pressed each match into my palm for him to use.
When the last candle flickered to life, she clapped. "Make a wish!"
Brooks met my eyes across the table. For a second, he didn't move. Just looked — at me, at her, at everything in between. Then he smiled, leaned forward, and blew out the candles.
The room went quiet for a beat, and in that stillness, I swear I felt it — that invisible thread between us pulling tight again.
We cut the cake, Alina insisted on getting the biggest piece, even though she'd already eaten half her weight in chocolate earlier.
Brooks didn't argue. He just handed her the plate, shaking his head. "You're gonna turn into cake at this rate."
"No, I'm gonna turn into a princess," she said with complete conviction.
He laughed, that soft, deep laugh that still did something to me. "Even better."
Watching them together felt like watching a life I used to think belonged to someone else. The way he leaned over to wipe frosting from her chin. The way she tilted her head toward him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
For once, I didn't feel like I was standing outside of it.
After cake, Alina climbed off her chair and ran to the couch, rummaging through her backpack. "I have something!" she said, digging until she found a folded piece of paper. She ran back and handed it to Brooks with both hands.
He unfolded it carefully. It was one of her drawings — the stick figures all holding hands under a sky filled with hearts. A tall one with brown hair, a smaller one with curls, and her in the middle, wearing a crooked crown.
"I made it today," she said proudly. "That's me and that's Mommy and that's you."
Brooks stared at it for a long moment, his throat bobbing once before he smiled. "It's perfect," he said quietly. "You're quite the artist."
She grinned, climbing into his lap like she'd been doing it forever. "I know."
I busied myself with the plates, pretending not to watch, but the truth was — I couldn't look away.
This was what I used to imagine when I was pregnant. Nights like this. Laughter soft enough to feel like safety. A home that wasn't just walls and rent but something alive.
And now that it was real, I didn't know what to do with it.
Because part of me was terrified that the universe would see how happy I looked and decide to take it back.
Alina fell asleep not long after, head tucked under Brooks's chin, her curls a halo against his chest. He carried her to her room, whispering something I couldn't hear. When he came back, his shirt was dusted with glitter from her drawing paper.
"She out?" I asked.
He nodded, voice low. "Didn't even make it through the bedtime story."
My heart ached with it.
He looked at me, that half-smile tugging at his mouth. "Thank you for tonight."
"You don't have to thank me," I said softly. "You deserved it."
Still, I could tell he meant it. The gratitude in his eyes wasn't about the cake or the candles. It was something deeper.
Something that scared me with how much I wanted to believe it could last.
He nodded once, "I'm gonna take a shower."
I watched him disappear down the hall toward my room, his footsteps soft against the floorboards. The sound of running water came a moment later — steady, rhythmic — blending with the faint hum of the fridge and the low tick of the clock.
I cleaned the rest of the dishes in silence, my mind still caught somewhere between the past few hours and the look on his face when Alina called him Daddy.
When the water shut off, I hesitated for half a second before heading down the hall.
The door to my room was open. Steam drifted out from the bathroom, curling into the warm air.
Brooks was standing there, towel slung low around his waist, hair damp, skin flushed from the heat. He was bent over his suitcase, digging for something to wear.
"Hey," I said softly, leaning against the doorframe.
He glanced up, a quick grin flashing. "Hey. Didn't mean to take forever. My back was sore from the flight."
"I figured," I said, stepping closer. "Alina wore you out, too."
"She did." He straightened, towel shifting as he turned to face me. "Worth it, though."
I smiled, shrugging lightly. "She was excited."
He nodded, still half-looking in the suitcase, half-looking at me. "I really appreciate you doing that for me. I don't think I've ever had a birthday that good."
"You're welcome," I said quietly.
He stopped searching then. Just stood there, watching me for a second before he closed the suitcase. His hand came up, finding my waist as he pulled me gently against him.
"Hey," he said again, softer this time. "Thank you. Really."
The towel was still damp against my legs, his skin warm beneath my palms. I looked up at him, chin brushing his chest.
His hand came up to cradle the back of my neck, thumb tracing slow circles against my skin.
And then he kissed me — not rushed or hungry, just slow and certain, like he was still saying thank you without words.
My hands slipped around his sides, fingers brushing over the damp skin of his back. He sighed into my mouth, the sound soft and content. When I pulled away, I didn't step back — just let my lips trace the edge of his jaw, the hollow of his throat, the slope of his shoulder.
He let his head fall forward a little, giving me space.
The towel dipped lower as I knelt, hands skimming down his hips. He looked down at me, eyes dark, mouth parted — but he didn't speak. Didn't need to. His breath caught when my lips found him, warm and slow, and then everything went very, very still.
It was quiet — only the sounds of his breath, the subtle hitch of his hips, the deep, low groan he tried not to let out but did anyway. My hands stayed firm on his thighs, grounding him. He let me set the pace, let me give — and I did, thoroughly.
By the time I stood, his eyes were hazy, reverent. He reached for me, but I shook my head gently, easing him back toward the bed instead.
"Just relax," I whispered. My fingers brushed his chest, guiding him down.
He let himself fall back, muscles unwinding all at once as he watched me climb over him, watched the shift in my expression — soft, sure, a little mischievous. My hands framed his face as I kissed him again, slower this time, deeper.
And the rest of the night was mine.