Chapter 15 The One Exception
The One Exception
Langston
Ithought I knew this house.
Every corner. Every inch.
But walking through it now with Sabrina beside me, I barely recognize the place.
Mabel’s been busy.
The cold, gray edges I used to favor are gone, replaced by warmth—soft lighting, woven textures, hints of color I wouldn’t have chosen myself but somehow work. There are vases of fresh flowers on the tables, a bowl of lemons on the counter, a faint scent of vanilla and something citrus in the air.
Even the theater room looks different.
Pillows. Blankets. A cozy throw draped over the back of the sofa.
I can’t decide whether to thank Mabel or fire her.
The only rooms untouched are my office, the master bedroom, and the bathroom—my usual no-go zones. The rest of the house feels… lived in.
And watching Sabrina take it in?
That does something to me I can’t explain.
She moves slowly, fingertips trailing along the edge of a sideboard, pausing to glance out a window or smile at something small—like the stack of books on the coffee table. She doesn’t say much, but her expression says enough.
I never cared what anyone thought of my home before. But now, I’m nervous.
Because it’s hers too, whether she realizes it yet or not.
When we finally reach the master bedroom, she stops in the doorway.
Her eyebrows lift.
I know what she’s thinking.
The rest of the house is soft and inviting, but this room—this space—is bare. Sparse furniture. Empty walls. No warmth. No softness. Just a bed, a dresser, and a view.
Her eyes flick from the blank walls to me, silently asking why?
I don’t move. Just watch her standing there in the middle of my room—our room now—bare feet sinking into the rug, red hair catching the light like a flame.
I’ve never brought a woman in here before. Not one.
And somehow, I thought I’d hate it—the intrusion, the disruption of my space. But I don’t.
I love it.
I love her being here.
I’m just about to tell her that the room never needed decorating because no one ever stayed long enough to make it feel like something more—when Mabel’s voice calls from down the hall.
“Dinner’s ready!”
Sabrina startles slightly, and the corner of my mouth lifts.
I gesture toward the door. “You heard her.”
She gives me a small, knowing smile—the one that always manages to land right in my chest—and slips her hand into mine as we head toward the dining room.
And for the first time in years, walking around my own home didn't feel empty.
It feels right.
Dinner smells incredible. Garlic, basil, and something buttery drifting through the house as we walk into the dining room.
Mabel has set the table like we’re hosting company—white plates, candles flickering low, a basket of bread still steaming.
Sabrina’s eyes light up, and the sound that leaves her is half laugh, half sigh. “This smells amazing.”
Mabel beams. “Sit, dear. I made linguine with lemon cream sauce, roasted vegetables, and a little dessert I’ll bring out later.”
I move to pull out Sabrina’s chair before she can do it herself, and the look she gives me—soft but surprised—hits somewhere deep.
Mabel returns to the kitchen, and I sit across from Sabrina, watching her tuck a strand of red hair behind her ear as she looks around the room again.
“You’re quiet,” I say, picking up my glass.
She glances at me, smiling faintly. “I just didn’t expect this.”
“This?”
“You,” she admits. “Between the food truck tacos and this house… I think I’ve been making a lot of assumptions about you.”
I tilt my head. “Good or bad?”
She considers, her lips curving. “Confusing.”
That earns a small laugh from me. “I’ll take confusing over predictable.”
Mabel reappears with a serving bowl and spoons a generous portion of pasta onto Sabrina’s plate before mine. “Eat before it gets cold,” she scolds lightly, smiling at us both.
Sabrina snorts into her napkin, and Mabel smirks at me before heading back toward the kitchen.
Sabrina grins. “I like her already.”
Of course she does. Everyone likes Mabel—but the way she said it makes my chest warm anyway.
We eat quietly for a while. She hums approvingly after the first bite, eyes fluttering shut like she’s genuinely enjoying it, and I find myself watching her more than my plate.
There’s something almost domestic about it—sitting across from her, sharing a meal in my own home—and the realization hits harder than I expect.
I never thought I’d want this. The comfort. The calm. Someone sitting across from me who isn’t talking business or chasing what my last name could get them.
Just her.
When Mabel brings out dessert—a simple bowl of strawberries with fresh whipped cream—Sabrina laughs softly. “This is one of my favorites.”
Mabel winks. “I had a feeling.”
I don’t miss the way Sabrina blushes at that, or the way she looks at me when Mabel leaves again. Like maybe she’s realizing the same thing I am.
That this doesn’t feel forced anymore.
It feels real.
“Let's go see the garden.” I push back from the table and raise my hand out to her. Praying she will take it again. I can't help but already being addicted to the feeling of her hand in mine.
Her eyes light up, and I can’t help but smile. I lead her out the back doors and down the small stone path, hand in hand.
It’s quiet out here—only the soft hum of crickets, the faint trickle of the fountain, and the glow of low lights hidden among the plants. Mabel strung them through the bushes and up the trellis years ago, but I never came out here much. I built it because I wanted to. She made it beautiful.
It’s not nearly as grand as the one we visited earlier, but it’s mine.
“I’ve always liked the public gardens,” I tell her as we walk. “It’s one of the few places in the city that shuts out the noise. So I brought a little of it home.”
She squeezes my hand gently. “You did a good job.”
We keep walking, fingers still tangled. There’s something about the night air that slows everything down—the world, my pulse, the thoughts I try to keep buried.
She stops near the edge of the path, where the soft light catches her hair and turns it into copper flame. Her gaze lifts to me, curious and serious all at once.
“Can I ask you something?” she says quietly.
I nod.
“Why me?”
Her voice isn’t bitter—just soft, careful. Then she shakes her head slightly, correcting herself. “I mean… why my family? Why marriage now?”
I exhale, slow and deep.