20. Banks
It’s been two weeks since Clover nearly collapsed at Ember, and I'm still a fucking wreck every time she so much as yawns.
"Seriously, Priestly. Take a breath before you pass out." Brenna flops onto the bench next to me in the station gym, blonde curls yanked into that tight ponytail she always wears on shift. “You’ve been staring at your phone for twenty minutes. Pretty sure it’ll buzz if something important happens.”
I grunt and shove my phone into my pocket, forcing my attention to the free weights. "Just checking the time."
"Bullshit." She snags a pair of fifteens and starts on bicep curls, eyeing me in the mirror. "You're checking to make sure your pregnant girlfriend hasn't spontaneously combusted in the last five minutes."
“She’s not my girlfriend,” I mutter—though, let’s be real, that’s basically exactly what Clover is. We live together, share a bed, split a baby fund, and I’m a thousand percent in love with her. But we haven’t slapped any official label on it, and it’s starting to eat at me.
"Right." Brenna rolls her eyes. "You just knocked her up, moved in, and look at her like she could chop off your leg and you’d thank her for it."
“It’s complicated.” I grab the thirties and hammer out a set of curls, trying to channel my frustration somewhere useful. “She’s different, all right? Independent as hell. Doesn’t want to need anybody.”
“And that’s a problem because…?”
“Because I want her to need me,” I bite out. “Not just as the father of her kid. I want her to—hell, I want to be everything to her.”
Brenna sets her weights aside and gives me a pointed look. "Have you told her that?"
"Not in so many words."
"Then how the hell is she supposed to know?"
I shrug, racking the dumbbells with more force than necessary. “Not exactly. But I told her brother I’m in love with her. Right in front of her.”
"That's not the same as telling her, dumbass." She shakes her head like I’m a rookie who can’t find the hose. "She doesn't want your protection, Banks. She wants your honesty. She wants to know she’s a choice you'd make every day even without the baby."
Her words nail me in the chest, stripping away all my lame excuses. Brenna's always had a talent for slicing through my bullshit.
"Let me guess," Brenna continues when I don't respond. "You're so focused on taking care of her and the baby that you've forgotten to actually show her who you really are as a partner—who you want to be for her.”
“What’s that even mean?” I grab a towel, wiping the sweat off my forehead, buying time because her words have cut open something uncomfortable in my chest.
"I mean that you're so worried about being the perfect baby daddy that you're not showing her the man who wants to build a life with her." Brenna stands and pokes me hard in the chest. "Show her who you really are, not who you think she wants you to be."
The station alarm blares before I can respond, sending us both sprinting toward the bay for a medical call. But Brenna's words follow me the rest of the shift, digging under my skin like splinters.
Show her who you really are.
By the time I clock out the next morning, I know exactly what I need to do.
When I pull up to the house in the Sellwood neighborhood for the second time, my palms are sweating against the steering wheel. This is a big fucking step, probably the biggest I've ever taken. I’m more nervous about this than I’ve ever been stepping into a fire.
"Are you sure about this?" The realtor, a no-nonsense woman named Ellen, shoots me a sideways glance from the passenger seat. “It’s a big commitment, especially without your partner here.”
"I'm sure." I unbuckle and swing out of the truck, my eyes fixing on the navy blue house with its wide front porch and white oak tree in the front yard that’s perfect for a swing. The 'For Sale' sign still sits in the front yard, but if everything goes according to plan today, it won't be there much longer. "She'll love it."
I hope.
Two hours later, I’ve scrawled my name on about a thousand forms, handed over the biggest down payment check of my life, and now I’m staring at keys in my palm. My hands won’t stop shaking.
"Congratulations, Mr. Priestly." She shakes my hand with a firm grip. "The sellers are thrilled with the quick close—you can move in immediately."
I thank her, but my gaze stays fixed on the place that’s now mine. Ours, if Clover will have it. The house we’ll raise our kids in, if she says yes. "I really appreciate you pulling this together so fast."
"Not a problem. Let me know if you need any recommendations for movers or contractors for the modifications you mentioned."
I nod, but my mind’s already buzzing with possibilities: the nursery in that upstairs room with the bay window that will fit so many of Clover’s plants, an office for her across the hall, a fenced yard out back for summer BBQs. I can see it all. The bones of this place feel like the start of something huge.
Now all I need is for Clover to feel it, too.
“Where are we going?” Clover shifts in my truck’s passenger seat, one hand resting on the small but definite baby bump now visible beneath her sweater. She's sixteen weeks along now, and the hyperemesis has finally started to ease, though she still has rough days. "You know how I feel about surprises."
"You hate them," I acknowledge, reaching across the console to squeeze her hand. "But you'll like this one. Promise."
"That's what you said about the 'pregnancy superfood smoothie' you made me last week, and I threw it up all over the bathroom floor."
"Low blow, Freckles." I grimace at the memory. The kale-and-beet nightmare was not my finest moment in pregnancy nutrition. "This is better than a smoothie."
She arches an eyebrow, still wary as hell. “It better be. I’m skipping a nap for this.”
The fact that she's admitting she needs a nap is progress. A month ago, she'd have rather died than acknowledge any weakness. Hyperemesis, however, doesn’t really give her a choice.
All I can do is hope that what’s waiting at the end of this drive is enough to show her exactly who I am—and exactly how serious I am about our future.
I turn onto the quiet, tree-lined street, and my pulse skyrockets. This is it—the moment of truth.
“Close your eyes,” I say as we near the house.
She shoots me a wary look. “Banks—”
"Please? Just for thirty seconds."
With a long-suffering sigh I've come to find adorable instead of irritating, she closes her eyes. “This better not be another baby thing. If you’ve ordered more—”
"It's not." I pull into the driveway and cut the engine. My stomach feels like it’s hosting a circus, and I take an extra second to breathe before hopping out. "Keep ‘em closed. No peeking."
I circle around to her side, open the door, and help her out of the truck. Her hand grips mine as I guide her up the stone path to the front porch. The early spring air is crisp, carrying the scent of newly bloomed flowers from the garden beds I've spent the past week filling with perennials.
I know how she feels about her plants.
“Okay,” I say once we’re at the perfect spot, my hands on her shoulders. Fuck, I hope she likes it. "Open."
Her eyes snap open, those pretty blue eyes of hers that I hope the baby has widening as she takes in the house in front of us. The fresh navy blue paint with white trim. The big front porch I could see us rocking in chairs on when we’re old.
“What is this?” Her voice is so soft I almost don’t catch it. "One of your firefighter buddies' places or something?"
My heart’s about to bust right out of my chest. “It’s ours,” I say, the words nearly sticking in my throat. “If you want it to be.”
Her head whips around so fast I'm surprised she doesn't hurt herself. "What?"
"I bought it," I say, fishing the keys from my pocket with fingers that won't stop shaking. The metal catches the sun, throwing light across her shocked face. "For us. For our family."
"You bought a house?" Her voice climbs higher with each word, her eyes going wide. "Without telling me? Without even asking me? Banks, what the actual fuck?"
Yeah, I was braced for that reaction—this is Clover, after all. She’s not the type to squeal and leap into my arms. She’s going to tear this apart, piece by piece, before she accepts it might be a good idea. Honestly, it’s one of the things I love about her—that sharp brain that never lets her take the easy route.
"Just look at it before you tear me a new one," I say, catching her hand and leading her to the door. "Please?"
She goes quiet, those blue eyes drilling into mine like she's trying to dismantle me piece by piece. Christ, I'd let her if she wanted to. Finally, she nods once. "Fine. Show me."
The key slides home with a satisfying click, and I push the door open. The entryway opens up with hardwood floors that gleam in the afternoon light pouring through the windows. The place is practically glowing, like it's been waiting for her to walk through the door.
"It’s four bedrooms, two baths," I rattle off as she steps inside. "Built over a century ago but fully renovated five years back—new roof, plumbing, electrical. The foundation's reinforced for earthquakes, so it's not going anywhere."
I sound like a desperate realtor, but I can’t help it. I need her to know I didn't just throw money at the first house I saw. That I checked every damn detail because this is where I want us to raise our kids. Where I want to come home to her after every shift.
Clover glides through the living room, her fingers brushing the built-ins around the old brick fireplace. Her face shifts, that initial shock melting into something softer—something that makes my chest tighten with hope.
"The kitchen's back here," I say, setting a hand on the small of her back to guide her. "I figured you'd want to see that first."
The minute I first walked in, I knew this kitchen was perfect for her: big and modern while still rocking that vintage feel—white subway tile, blue-gray cabinets, brass pulls, and a deep farmhouse sink under a window overlooking the backyard.
“There’s a garden window for all your plant babies,” I add, pointing it out. “Manhattan and Mint Julep will like that morning sun, but the moody ones—Old Fashioned and the rest—can sit on the shaded shelf.”
She spins toward me, eyes wide. For a second, I think I’ve messed up big-time.
“You remember which ones need indirect light?” she asks, voice catching.
“’Course I do,” I shrug, trying to play it cool even though my heart’s pounding. “I pay attention to the things that matter to you.”
She huffs a laugh, but it sounds suspiciously close to a sob. Her gaze skims over the window ledge, and I can only imagine what’s going through her head. When she turns back to me, there’s something in her eyes I haven’t seen before—some soft mix of gratitude and wonder that makes my chest tighten.
I clear my throat, shifting gears because I’m not sure I can handle her tears right now—especially not if they’re happy ones. “Anyway,” I say, leading her deeper into the kitchen, my hand at the small of her back. “Check this out.”
I lead her farther into the kitchen, running a hand over the counters. “There’s tons of space for when you’re stress-baking.” I open the pantry door to reveal the spice rack I installed last night. “Check it out—ready to be alphabetized just how you like it even if it makes zero fucking sense to organize them that way.”
She lets out this half-laugh, half-sob sound that twists my insides. “Banks…”
"Come on. There's more." I tug her gently toward the stairs, showing off the updated bathroom with hex tiles and a vintage clawfoot tub I immediately pictured her in, surrounded by bubbles.
The best part is it’s big enough to fit us both.
I push open the door to the smallest bedroom. "This would be your office. Until you get your bar up and running.”
The space is bare except for the desk I had delivered a few days ago—a midcentury piece I found at an estate sale. I spent three nights refinishing it while Clover was working. My hands still smell like wood polish. I positioned it right under the window with the best view of the backyard.
"I know you need space that's all yours," I tell her, watching her face. "Somewhere to work or study without me hovering or the baby crying."
She runs her fingers over the desktop, and even though she’s silent, I can see all the little tells that say she’s feeling something big.
“This next one’s the nursery,” I say, leading her across the hall. “Morning sun comes right in, and it’s close to the master so we’ll hear the baby. And it’s the perfect place for Bellini.”
The walls are painted a pale green—neutral, but still cozy. I’ve already set up the crib I spent weeks researching, and above it hangs a mobile with clouds and lightning bolts and tiny raindrops. When the light catches them, they sparkle like bits of magic.
It’s more than a house—it’s the foundation of the life I want with her.
“The mobile felt right,” I say, breaking the silence when she just stands there. “I know we haven’t talked about a theme yet, but it reminded me of that night. The storm.”
The night everything changed—the night we made this baby and I stopped trying to bury my feelings for Clover James.
She lifts a hand to cover her mouth, tears building in her eyes. Aw, hell. This is way too much, too fast. I swore I wouldn’t push her, and here I am, practically bulldozing her into a future she hasn’t even agreed to.
“You don’t have to decide anything right now,” I blurt, taking a step back. “The house is mine regardless—I already gave up my apartment. But it only becomes ours if you want it to be.”
Her voice comes out thick. “What’s in there?” She nods toward the last closed door at the end of the hall. She’s fighting tears like a champ, but I know my girl—she’s close to breaking.
“Master bedroom.”
Before I can stop her, she’s pushing past me, shoving the door open. The space is huge, with bay windows and a built-in window seat I immediately pictured her curled up in. There’s no bed yet, but I strung lights along the ceiling—soft, warm ones that won’t kill our eyes when the baby’s screaming at three in the morning.
“I thought it might help,” I offer, feeling more exposed than I have in years. “You know, when the baby’s up all night...these lights will be easier than the overhead.”
Clover turns to face me, and there's no hiding the tears sliding down her cheeks now. "Why are you doing all this?” she whispers.
This is it. No more hiding.
"Because I'm in love with you," I tell her, the words feeling like they've been trapped in my chest for years. "Not because of the baby. Not because we're living together. I've been falling for you since you were seventeen, and I'm done pretending otherwise."
I move into her space, backing her against the doorframe. My arms cage her in as I lower my face to hers.
Her lips part, and I can see the shock on her face. I should have done this a long time ago instead of telling her brother first like an idiot.
“I know I messed up,” I admit, leaning in. "Telling Kasen I was in love with you before I ever said it to your face wasn’t my best move. You deserved to hear it from me first." I cradle her face, swiping tears away with my thumbs. "I've waited too long for you, Freckles. I've held back, kept my distance, let you set the pace. But I'm done waiting. This isn't about obligation—it's about us. Building something real together. I want all of it—this house, our family, coming home to you, waking up beside you every morning. I’d collapse every bridge, burn every map, break every compass—just to be the only way home you’ll ever need. You’re mine, Clover—both of you are.”
She breathes my name, so soft it nearly breaks me. “I’m so scared,” she confesses, voice trembling.
“Of what?” I ask, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear while my heart pounds like it wants out of my chest and into hers.
"That you'll leave." Her fingers twist in my shirt like she's afraid if she lets go I’ll disappear. "That this is too good to be real. Everyone leaves eventually. My mom. My dad. Kasen—eventually he came back, but...still. Every guy I’ve let close enough to see the real me. I don't know if I could survive it if you—"
“I’m not going anywhere,” I cut her off, the words coming out fiercer than I planned. “Not now, not ever. You’re stuck with me, Freckles. For good.”
She stares up at me, that war raging behind her eyes—she wants to believe me but she's scared shitless. Her hope is fighting with her fear. What she wants is battling her doubt. I hate that she’s even got a fraction of a reason not to trust in us.
"How can you be so sure?" she whispers. "We've only been together a few months since we—"
Fuck, she’s finally admitting we’re together. About damn time.
"It's been years for me," I tell her, needing her to understand. "Years of wanting you. Years of loving you from a distance because I was convinced you'd never want me back. The second you let me in—let me touch you, hold you, love you—that was it for me. Game over. There is no going back. There’s no life for me without you."
The silence stretches between us, and for a second I think maybe she's about to say she loves me too. Then my phone chirps with that specific tone I can’t ignore. The emergency alert. I pull it from my pocket, already knowing whatever's on the screen is about to ruin everything.
"Banks?" Clover's voice comes out small and unsure, snapping me back to the moment.
"There's a fire." My blood turns to ice water in my veins when I recognize the address. My stomach plummets straight through the floor as images flash through my mind—Clover watching the news, Clover not knowing if I'm okay, Clover alone if something happens to me. The taste of copper floods my mouth as I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to draw blood. I turn the screen so she can see it. "On Timber’s block. They're calling everyone in."
I want to tell her not to worry, but if it's bad enough for an all-hands call and evacuating the whole block, we should absolutely be worried.
Her face pales. She doesn’t ask if I’m going—she knows I have to. "Go." There's this resignation in her voice that kills me—like she’s already preparing for the worst. For me to not come back to her. “Just...please be careful.”
"Always." I press my forehead against hers, breathing her in for one more second. "This conversation isn't over, Freckles. Not even close."
I dig in my pocket and press the house key into her palm, folding her fingers around it. I hold on tight. "Whether you decide you want this place or not, this is yours. So you know you've always got somewhere to call home."
She stares at the key but I can’t read her expression. She still hasn’t said whether she wants to live here with me, to create a life together, to raise our baby.
She still hasn’t said that she loves me back. But I can’t wait around for answers.
"I gotta go," I tell her, already heading for the stairs. "I'll call you as soon as I can."
“Banks.” Her voice brings me up short at the landing. I glance back, see her standing in what should be our bedroom, one hand on the bump that holds our future, the other clutching the key I gave her. “You better come home.”
I manage a rough nod, then sprint out to my truck. As I peel away, her words echo in my mind— everyone leaves eventually . She’s expecting me to vanish, to break her heart like every other person in her life.
I’m going to prove her wrong.
But first, I’ve got a fire to put out.