Chapter 31
thirty-one
. . .
Jake
I’m still shocked Natalie agreed to come to my house. We haven’t been back since I showed her the nursery, and honestly, I wasn’t sure she’d say yes when I asked her to dinner tonight.
I take the salmon out of the oven and set the pan on the stovetop to rest. It looks good. Crisp edges, center still soft. I check one piece with the back of my fork to make sure it flakes but doesn’t fall apart. Perfect.
The table’s already set. I probably went overboard on the flowers, but if that’s the worst thing I do tonight, we’re fine. I check my phone on the counter, look at the text that came in about twenty minutes ago.
Natalie
Just leaving the office. Be there in 20.
Jake
Drive safe.
She should be here any minute. I adjust the oven to low so the salmon stays warm, toss the salad one more time, double-check the dessert in the fridge.
We’ve basically been living together since just before Christmas.
She never said no when I floated the idea of her and the baby moving in.
She just said she needed time. And in the weeks since, we’ve slipped into a life that already feels like the answer.
Tonight is about saying it out loud.
I open the drawer by the stairs, touch the small velvet box resting there, then close it again. My heart kicks a little harder, but my hands are steady.
Headlights sweep across the front windows.
I wipe my palms on a towel, take one slow breath, and walk to the door.
When I open it, she’s there on the porch in leggings and one of her oversized blazer jackets, hand automatically resting at the top of her stomach like it’s second nature.
Her hair is down, the ends curling from the day, her bag slipping off her shoulder.
“Hey,” I say, and this time my voice comes out even. I step forward to grab her bag.
“Hey yourself,” she says, a small smile tugging at her mouth. “Something smells good.”
Her gaze slips past me into the house and I watch as her eyes dart across the space looking at the candles, the flowers, and the decorated table.
She hesitates in the doorway. “What’s all this?”
“Dinner,” I say. “Come in.”
She steps over the threshold and, for a second, her shoulders tense, like her body clocks something before her brain catches up.
“It’s Valentine’s Day,” I say quietly.
“I didn’t know we did Valentine’s Day.”
“We can start.”
Something shifts in her expression and her shoulders relax. “Okay,” she says finally. “The flowers are beautiful.”
“Let me grab your drink, then we’ll sit.”
I get the sparkling cider and pour it into flutes.
“You look nice,” I say, setting her glass down.
She glances up at me, surprised. “My work clothes?”
“You look good in everything.”
Color warms her cheeks. “You clean up nicely too.”
I serve the salad, salmon, the rice, and the roasted vegetables. She watches me for a second, then looks down at her plate.
“Did you work today?” she asks, looking at the spread like maybe I didn’t cook all of this.
“I did,” I say. I take the seat across from her.
Her eyes flick to mine, then away. She picks up her fork, takes a careful bite. “This is really good,” she says. “I’m impressed.”
She tells me about her day, and I share mine. It feels easy. Familiar. The thing I want every night for the rest of my life.
When we’re finished, I clear the plates and serve her favorite bakery cake I picked up on the way home from the office.
She raises an eyebrow when she sees it. “Okay, now I’m suspicious,” she says. “What did you do?”
“Nothing,” I say. “Yet.”
She narrows her eyes at the “yet,” but she takes a bite and closes her eyes for a second, clearly appreciating the sugar hit.
We finish, and for a moment I just watch her. The way her hand moves absently over her belly while she listens. The way she looks around my house like she’s starting to get familiar with it.
“Come sit with me,” I say, nodding toward the living room. “I want to talk to you.”
There it is. The shift. Her shoulders straighten. Her hand stills. She hears what I didn’t say.
“Okay,” she says carefully.
We move to the couch. She settles into the corner, angled slightly toward me, her feet tucked under her, one hand at her side, the other resting over the baby. I sit close, but not crowding her.
For a second, I just take her in. The woman I’m in love with sitting in my living room, carrying our daughter.
“I’ve been thinking a lot,” I begin.
Her mouth tips knowingly. “That sounds serious.”
“It is,” I admit. “But I’d like you to hear me out.”
“Okay.”
“When we first talked about this—about keeping things simple, being co-parents, not making it more complicated than it had to be—I agreed. Mostly, I didn’t want to push you into anything. I didn’t want you to feel trapped with me just because of the baby.”
She swallows, eyes on my face.
“But since before Christmas, we’ve been living something completely different,” I continue.
“I pick you up from work. We eat dinner together. We fall asleep together. We wake up together. We talk about our days. We’ve planned her room.
Her name. Her future. That’s not casual, Nat. That’s building a life together.”
Her eyes shine a little, but she doesn’t look away.
“You didn’t say no when I asked you to think about moving in,” I say quietly. “You said you needed time, but babe, we’re running out of time, and I’d like to make it official, to make it real.”
I stand, my heartbeat steady now instead of jumping, and cross to the drawer by the stairs where I left the ring box. When I turn back, she’s watching me, completely still.
“Jake,” she says, and my name sounds more like a warning.
I drop to one knee in front of her. Her hand flies to her mouth.
“Let me say it,” I ask. “Just once. All the way through.”
She’s frozen, so I take advantage of the silence.
“I’m in love with you,” I say. The words land between us, heavy and clear.
“Not because this got complicated or because there’s a baby on the way.
I love you. I see the person I want to come home to.
The person I want to fight with and make up with and fall asleep next to every single night.
When I’m with you, I’m steadier. Better.
Calmer in a way I didn’t know I could be.
You’re the first person I’ve ever been with where nothing feels performative or fragile.
It just feels right. It feels like home. You make my life feel…whole.”
A tear slips down her cheek. She doesn’t move to wipe it away.
“I love our life,” I say. “The one we’re already living. And I want to build on it. I want you and the baby here. With me. Not as my roommate. Not as my co-parent who happens to share my bed. As my partner. As my wife.”
I open the box. The ring catches the light. It’s simple, elegant, something I could picture on her hand from the first moment I saw it.
“Natalie,” I say, my voice steady, “will you marry me?”
For a moment, everything in the room goes very quiet. Even the clock on the wall seems to pause.
Her eyes are locked on the ring, then on me. I watch the shift I know too well. Her shoulders tighten, her eyes look vacant, and her lips shift into a forced grin.
“Jake,” she whispers, and my name sounds like it hurts.
Something cold settles in my gut, but I keep my voice steady.
“You don’t have to answer this second,” I say gently. “But I needed you to know where I am. I needed you to know this isn’t an accident I’m just managing. This is what I want. You. Her. Us. Permanently.”
Her throat works around words that take a moment to form.
“I thought we agreed,” she says finally, her voice rough, “that we were just co-parenting. That we weren’t doing this.”
The words hit harder than they should. We’ve been living together in everything but name for months. I’ve been inside her, held her while she slept, felt our daughter kick against my hand. And she’s calling it co-parenting.
I swallow hard, force myself to stay calm. “What we said,” I correct quietly, “and what we’ve been living aren’t the same thing.”
Her eyes flash, something like panic or anger or pure fear surfacing for the first time. “You knew from the beginning,” she says. “I told you I don’t do relationships. Not like this.”
My jaw tightens. I flex my fingers, releasing the tension before it can show in my voice.
“You say that,” I answer, still calm, “but you’ve been in one with me for months.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Is it not true?”
She looks away. She’s shaking now, small tremors she’s trying to control.
Every instinct tells me to stand, to pull her close, to make her see what we have. But I stay on one knee, the ring box still open, my heart pounding against my ribs like it’s trying to break free.
“I’m not trying to trap you,” I say, and my voice comes out lower now, rougher. “I’m not asking you to play house because it’s tidy before the baby comes. I’m asking because I love you and I want you.”
“I can’t do this,” she says.
Something cracks in my chest. The pain is sharp and immediate, but I keep my expression neutral. “Can’t say yes right now?” I ask. “Or can’t even think about it?”
“It’s all too much,” she says, shaking her head. “Work. The show. The baby. Everyone having opinions about how I should do everything. I feel like I’m barely keeping my head above water and you’re asking me to stand at the altar again and—I have to go.”
The mention of the altar makes my stomach drop.
“I’m not him,” I say softly, and it takes everything I have to keep the frustration out of my voice. “I’m not going to disappear. I’m not going to leave you standing there alone.”
She’s breathing fast now. I can see her pulling away one piece at a time.
“I need space,” she says suddenly.
The words land like a punch to the gut. My hand tightens around the ring box, the velvet crushing under my grip.
“Space?” I repeat.
“I need to think,” she says. “I need to figure out how to be a mom without also trying to be someone’s fiancée. I barely recognize myself right now. I can’t make a decision like this when I don’t even know who I am in this version of my life.”
I stand slowly, closing the ring box with a quiet snap. The sound has a feeling of finality to it.
“Nat—”
She pushes to her feet, slower than she used to, one hand braced on the arm of the couch, the other over her stomach. “I think we might need to take a step back,” she adds, and that’s the one that really cuts. “Just for a while. So I’m not making choices because there’s a clock ticking.”
My throat feels tight. I swallow hard, force myself to nod.
“For how long?” I ask, and my voice comes out quieter than I intended.
“I don’t know.” Her eyes gloss again.
The not knowing is worse than a clean no. It leaves everything suspended, uncertain, like I’m supposed to just wait while she decides if I’m worth the risk.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I really am.”
She reaches for her bag, fingers fumbling with the strap.
My chest aches. Every muscle in my body wants to move, to stop her, to make her stay and talk this through. But I stand there, holding the ring box, watching her pull away from everything we’ve built.
“I never wanted to make you feel cornered,” I say, and I have to work to keep my voice level. “That wasn’t the point of tonight.”
“I know,” she says, and for the first time since I opened the ring box, she steps closer, resting a hand on my arm. The touch is brief but real. “You were trying to give me something solid. I’m just not there yet.”
She hesitates at the door, fingers tightening around the handle. For a second, I think she might turn back, say something different. She doesn’t. The door closes behind her with a soft click.
For a long time I stay where I am, the house suddenly too quiet. The table still set. The flowers still perfect. The candles burned down to stubs. I set the ring box on the mantel and press the heels of my hands against my eyes.
The frustration burns hot in my chest, mixing with the hurt, with the fear that maybe she’ll never be ready.
That no matter how much I show up, how patient I am, how much I love her, it won’t matter.
Because she’s still running from something I can’t fight.
If love and showing up aren’t enough to make her feel safe, what is?