Chapter 8 #2
He walked down the slope, his shoes pressing into the damp grass, the dock boards holding firm beneath his weight, though he made a note to have them inspected anyway.
Josephine would laugh at that — tell him the dock had survived long before Viktor Nygaard arrived with contractors, checklists, and unnecessary opinions about structural integrity.
His mouth curved at the thought. Then the image shifted without permission, becoming Josephine standing beside him with a child between them — teaching that child how to hold a fishing rod, her patience thinner than she’d claim, laughter bright when the line tangled.
Another child running back toward the house, because sitting still near water wouldn’t suit everyone.
The scene wasn’t vague, and that was what made it matter.
Viktor looked down at the water, hands folded in front of him.
He’d imagined Josephine as his wife before, often enough that the thought no longer surprised him — imagined her pregnant with his child, waking in his bed, her name tied legally and permanently to his.
Those images had always carried certainty.
This property gave them walls, windows, a lawn, a dock.
His phone vibrated. Josephine’s name on the screen, a short message — either busy, or pretending she wasn’t waiting for his response.
Are you inspecting something expensive or pretending to work?
He read it twice before replying. Both.
That sounds accurate.
He typed back, walking slowly along the dock. You would accuse me of overplanning this property.
Three dots, gone, then back. I would accuse you correctly.
He allowed himself a brief smile before locking the phone.
Even through a screen she brought him exactly where she wanted him.
He’d once built whole days around finding reasons to be near her; now she reached for him first, casually, naturally, without treating every contact like a risk.
That change remained one of the most satisfying developments of his life.
He returned to the house and moved through the upstairs rooms — one bedroom facing the lake, another overlooking the front lawn.
The primary suite was quiet, spacious, too impersonal in its current state.
Viktor stood in the doorway and mentally stripped out everything that didn’t belong, imagining Josephine’s clothes in the closet, her shoes lined where she’d insist they were organized, her annoyance when he arranged things more efficiently.
The inspection report would describe the property in practical terms — acreage, condition, improvements, lake access, privacy, potential long-term use.
It wouldn’t mention that he’d already begun measuring the place against Josephine’s habits, that he’d checked the morning light because she liked bright spaces, that every business decision he made lately seemed to bend toward the same future.
That truth should have required adjustment.
It didn’t. Viktor stood in the center of the empty bedroom and accepted it with complete calm.
He no longer separated business from Josephine, because Josephine was no longer separate from the life he was building.
She’d become part of the foundation. Part of the plan. Part of the destination.
His phone vibrated again before he left the room. Dinner tonight?
Yes, he answered immediately.
He pocketed the phone and took one last look around.
The property still needed inspection, negotiation, the same precision he gave everything else — but as he walked back downstairs, Viktor already knew the truth.
This was no longer just another acquisition, and Josephine Collins was no longer someone he imagined fitting into his life.
She was the reason he was shaping it differently.
* * *
Josephine sat cross-legged on the nursery floor at Avery and Julian’s house, a stack of tiny folded onesies beside her and a gift bag between her knees.
The room smelled faintly of fresh paint, baby detergent, and the candle Avery had insisted didn’t make her nauseous this week.
Pale curtains moved near the window; sunlight spread across the rug where Avery had arranged baskets, blankets, and enough baby supplies to stock a small store.
Josephine picked up another outfit and smoothed it flat across her lap.
Avery sat in the glider, one hand on her stomach, the other sorting gift cards. “I still think half of this is unnecessary,” she said, frowning at a package of tiny mittens. “How many hands does one baby have, exactly? Based on these gifts, the answer is apparently sixteen.”
Josephine laughed and folded the outfit into a neat square. “People like buying small things. It makes them emotional and financially irresponsible.”
“That explains Julian,” Avery said, setting the mittens aside. “He came home yesterday with another blanket because he said it looked soft. I asked him where we were supposed to put it, and he looked at me like storage was a personal attack.”
Josephine smiled down at the tiny clothes, reaching for a cream-colored sleeper and running her thumb along the snaps. “He’s excited. It’s sweet, actually.”
“It is,” Avery admitted. “Annoying, but sweet.” She shifted carefully in the glider, watching Josephine fold the sleeper with more attention than the task required. “You’re being very quiet over there.”
“I’m folding baby clothes. That seems like an activity that should involve concentration.”
“It involves squares of fabric with feet attached. You are not defusing a bomb.”
Josephine gave her a dry look. “You asked me to help.”
“I did,” Avery said, holding up both hands in peace before resting one on her stomach again. “And I appreciate your very intense approach to laundry.”
Josephine rolled her eyes, smiling as she reached for another tiny outfit.
The afternoon had been easier than expected — music on, Julian checked in twice before being sent away, an hour spent folding clothes while her sister narrated the absurdity of baby equipment.
There was something grounding about the room, the simple tasks, the evidence of a life expanding to make space for someone new.
Avery sorted through another stack of cards, then glanced over with the careful casualness Josephine recognized too well. “Can I ask you something without you getting dramatic? And by dramatic, I mean deflecting with sarcasm and pretending you don’t know what I mean.”
Josephine paused with a pair of tiny socks in her hand. “That depends entirely on the question. You already look too pleased with yourself.”
“I’m curious. That’s different.”
“It rarely is with you.”
Avery smiled, glanced toward the crib, then back. “Can you see yourself doing this?” Gentle, but direct. “Marriage. Children. A nursery full of things you have to organize because everyone else is apparently determined to overwhelm you.”
Josephine’s fingers stilled against the socks.
The question didn’t land the way it once would have.
A few months ago she’d have laughed, made a joke about sleep deprivation, moved the conversation somewhere safer.
This time she looked around the room instead — the crib already made with clean sheets, a basket of stuffed animals by the dresser, Avery’s robe over the rocking chair, Julian’s half-assembled instruction booklet abandoned near the changing table.
The whole room looked lived in already, not because the baby had arrived, but because love had made everyone prepare too much.
“Yes,” Josephine said finally.
Avery blinked, clearly surprised she hadn’t needed to work harder. “Yes?”
She set the socks carefully in the basket. “Yes. I can see it.”
Avery’s teasing expression softened. “With Viktor?”
She pressed her lips together a moment. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Josephine looked up sharply, but Avery only watched her with quiet patience — somehow worse than the teasing. She set the next folded piece into the basket and sat back on her heels. “Yes,” she said, quieter now. “With Viktor.”
Avery nodded, as if the answer had simply confirmed what she already knew. “That didn’t sound as terrifying as I expected.”
“It didn’t feel as terrifying as I expected,” Josephine admitted, glancing toward the crib again, then back at her hands. “That might be the strange part.”
Avery leaned forward slightly, careful with the movement. “Do you want it? Not in theory. Not someday if life magically becomes simple. Do you actually want it?”
Josephine took her time. She thought about Viktor arriving at her studio with coffee before a meeting.
His hand at her waist, his certainty, the way he included her in plans without making it feel like a cage.
The way he looked at her when she laughed, the way he’d never made wanting her seem temporary.
“I do,” she said, and the honesty made her chest tighten. “I want marriage. I want children. I want a home that feels like it belongs to me because I chose it, not because I stopped moving and got stuck there.”
Avery’s eyes warmed, but she didn’t rush in with comfort — she knew better. “That sounds like a pretty big thing to admit while folding socks.”
Josephine laughed softly, wiping her palms over her skirt. “Apparently your baby has excellent timing.”
“My baby is very advanced,” Avery said, patting her stomach. “Clearly already helping the family communicate.”
“Do not start giving the baby credit for your meddling.”
“I will give credit where it is due.” Avery picked up a small blanket, smoothing it across her lap. “But for the record, Viktor has never hidden wanting the same things.”
“No, he hasn’t.”
“That man has been talking like forever was already on the calendar since the day he showed up in your life,” Avery said, folding the blanket with slow care. “You were the only one acting like he might wake up and change his mind.”