Chapter 26
Two weeks later, Will and I are in Cheyenne, furniture shopping.
For our house.
I still can’t quite wrap my head around that sentence, let alone the fact that we’re doing it in secret. We’ve made love in every room. Picked out paint swatches. He fixed the squeaky back gate and I ordered dishes for our kitchen. But we haven’t told a single soul.
Not Sam. Not Charlie. Not anyone.
It’s surreal, walking through showrooms and talking about rugs and nightstands like we’re just another couple. No whispers, no hiding, no fear of someone seeing us and reporting back.
Just us.
Will holds my hand as we walk into the next store, his thumb tracing slow circles against my skin. He’s in jeans and a black henley rolled up at the sleeves—basically weaponized masculinity. I’m trying not to look at him like I want to christen every couch in here.
“You keep lookin’ at me like that,” he says low, “and we’re gonna get banned from the mattress section.”
“Don’t tempt me,” I whisper, tugging him toward a tan sectional I spotted across the room.
He follows without hesitation, fingers still laced through mine. When we stop, he drops onto the couch, legs spread, arms draped across the back like he owns the place. Like he already sees me curled up against him in some lazy Sunday future.
“I like this one,” he says.
I raise a brow. “That was fast.”
He tugs me down beside him. “Comfort speaks for itself.”
I snuggle in, letting myself sink into the cushions—and into him. He kisses the side of my head like it’s second nature now. It feels normal. Easy. Like we’re allowed to be this way outside of locked doors.
But that ache comes back, subtle and sharp. Because we’re still a secret. And at some point, this is going to collide with real life.
He must feel my shoulders stiffen, because he leans in and whispers, “Hey. What’s goin’ on in that head of yours, sugar?”
I shake my head, trying to smile. “Nothing. Just weird, I guess. That this is real.”
He really looks at me. Not the kind of glance you toss across a dinner table, but the kind that peels you open.
Then he says, “It’s been real a long time, sugar.”
And somehow, that one simple sentence roots me deeper than anything else ever could.
He stands and offers his hand, palm up like a promise. “Let’s look upstairs.”
We take the escalator to the second floor, which is full of bedroom sets, lighting, and rugs. The part where it starts to feel like a home instead of a house.
I fall in love with a white oak bedroom set and its clean lines and warm tones. It’s the kind of timeless I didn’t know I liked until it was ours. Will, meanwhile, is lying dramatically across a mattress, grinning like a fool.
“This one. I want this one. I’ll do unspeakable things on this one.”
I laugh, cheeks warm. “You’ve done unspeakable things on a cot. You’re not picky.”
He just winks and says, “That’s fair.”
We move to the next showroom, still joking, still wrapped in the glow of something sweet and golden and fragile.
Then we step into a nursery setup.
And everything shifts.
I slow down without meaning to. My steps falter as I take it in. Soft neutral colors, a chair in the corner, tiny shelves for tiny shoes. And in the center of it all, a white oak crib in the same finish as the bedroom set I picked out.
Something pulls in my chest. Low and heavy, like something’s missing deep inside of me.
Will comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist, his chin dropping to my shoulder.
“You think we should get it?” he murmurs, voice low and careful.
My breath stutters. “Why would we—”
“Sugar,” he cuts in gently, a little smile curving at the edge of his mouth. “I don’t know how to say this without sounding like I pay way too much attention to you.”
I turn just enough to look at him.
He lifts a brow. “You haven’t had a period since we’ve been together. And you’re not on anything. Not that I’m complaining.”
My pulse thrums.
He’s still holding me.
“And,” he adds, his palm sliding up to cup my breast through my shirt, “these are definitely gettin’ bigger.”
I gasp, half mortified, half frozen. “Will—”
“I’m just sayin’,” he murmurs, lips brushing my ear now, “you’ve been tired. A little snappier than usual. Not that it’s not hot when you boss me around, but I notice.”
I swallow. “That doesn’t mean—”
“I know.” He softens, turning me gently in his arms. “I’m not trying to freak you out. I just think we might need to stop by a pharmacy on the way home.”
He looks at me like he already knows the answer. Like it won’t change how he holds me.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
But I lean into him anyway. Because even if my whole world is tilting… he isn’t.
We don’t talk much as we leave the nursery section. But he keeps holding my hand. And when we walk into the next part of the store—a mess of lamps and throw pillows and woven blankets I’d normally breeze past—he stops in front of a display.
“What about this one for the couch?” he asks, holding up a pillow.
It’s ugly. Like, real ugly. The kind of mustard yellow that looks like it’s been sun-faded since the ‘70s.
I blink. “You can’t be serious.”
He looks at it. Looks at me. “I mean, it’s got character.”
“It has a vendetta.”
He grins. “You wound me.”
I take the pillow gently from his hands and place it back on the shelf. “Let’s try again.”
We wander a little more, and the next one he points to is not awful. Earth tones. Textured. Cozy.
“Okay,” I say slowly, suspicious. “Now you’re just trying to impress me.”
He shrugs. “Maybe.”
And that’s the moment. Not the teasing. Not the touch. But the way he looks at me when he says it. Like this matters. Like what I want on our couch matters. My chest aches in the best way.
He pushes the cart while I fill it with little things I never thought I’d be allowed to care about—vases, placemats, an obnoxiously soft blanket I fall in love with on the spot.
He throws in a popcorn bowl that says I’m here for the snacks and doesn’t even blink when I toss a set of absurdly overpriced linen napkins in after it.
And somewhere between the hand soap aisle and the checkout line, I realize I’m falling harder.
Not because he’s sexy. Not because he’s good in bed or kisses like he owns my mouth. And not because I might be pregnant with his baby.
But because this man— this gruff, flannel-wearing, whiskey-sipping, strong-silent-type man— is pushing a cart full of nonsense without a single complaint. And looking at me like I’m the only thing that’s ever made sense to him.
I watch him laugh with the cashier when she asks if we’re newlyweds. Hear him say, “Not yet,” without even hesitating.
And it hits. This is what forever could look like. A truck bed full of throw pillows and bad coffee from the store café. His hand in mine while we talk about curtain rods. That warm, steady presence beside me every damn day.
And I want to tell him.
I almost do.
But instead, I reach for his hand as we walk into the parking lot and squeeze. He squeezes back. Like he already knows.
The drive to the pharmacy is quiet. Not uncomfortable. Just heavy. Like the air between us knows what we’re about to do.
Will doesn’t push. He taps the steering wheel with his fingers, eyes on the road, jaw tight in a way that tells me he’s thinking but waiting for me to set the tone.
When we pull into the lot, he parks but doesn’t turn off the engine.
“I can go in,” he says, already reaching for the door handle.
“No,” I say quickly. “I’ll come.”
We walk in together.
The overhead lights are too bright. The aisles too quiet. It’s the middle of the day on a weekday, so the only other shopper is an older woman browsing vitamins.
We find the test aisle, and suddenly, every box feels like it’s shouting.
Will leans down next to me, his voice soft. “Any preference?”
“Uh…” I blink at the rows. “One that doesn’t feel like a billboard?”
He chuckles quietly and grabs a small, no-frills box. “This one says it’s over 99% accurate and doesn’t look like it’s trying to upsell us on a stroller.”
I take it from him and nod. “Perfect.”
At the checkout, the clerk doesn’t even blink. Just scans it, bags it, and says, “Have a good day.”
We walk out hand in hand.
Neither of us says anything until we’re back in the truck.
“You good?”
I nod.
Back at the house, everything feels louder. The creak of the floorboards. The hum of the fridge. The thunk of the bathroom door when I close it behind me.
I sit on the edge of the tub, test in hand, heart pounding like I’ve just run a race.
Through the door, Will calls softly, “You okay?”
I take a breath. “Yeah. Just nervous.”
“Me too.”
I smile despite myself. “You don’t sound nervous.”
“I’m faking it.”
I laugh. It helps. A little.
Then I take the test and set it on the counter before joining Will in the newly painted bedroom.
Three minutes feel like thirty.
The alarm on my phone goes off, sharp and sudden in the silence.
I jump, heart crashing against my ribs. “I can’t look.”
Will doesn’t move at first. Just watches me with that steady gaze that always knows when to wait.
Then he nods. “Okay.”
My voice shakes. “Can you?”
He steps into the bathroom.
I press my hands together so tightly my knuckles ache. Every second feels stretched and fragile.
He picks up the test, flips it over, and studies it.
And then, calmly, almost like he’s telling me we’re out of coffee, he says, “Well, sugar, looks like it stuck.”
My lips part, but no sound comes out.
“It’s positive?” I whisper.
He turns to face me, holding the test gently between two fingers like it’s made of glass. And then he nods, smiling.
That soft, stunned kind of smile that’s half awe, half something deeper. Something that says he’s already in. That he’s already home.
I cover my mouth with my hand, overwhelmed. And then I throw myself into his arms.
“We’re having a baby, Will.” My voice cracks around the words, tears streaming unchecked down my cheeks. “Oh my god.”
His arms wrap around me instantly, holding me tight, grounding me.
“I hope these are happy tears, sugar,” he murmurs against my hair.
I pull back just enough to see his face, to cup his jaw with shaking fingers. “The happiest.”
My heart is wide open. No walls. No doubt.
“I love you so much, Will Flowers.”
His lips part like he wasn’t ready to hear it, but needed it more than air.
“Say it again,” he breathes.
I don’t hesitate. “I love you.”
The words settle into the space between us like they’ve always belonged there.
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for months.
And then he kisses me. Not with heat. Not with hunger.
But with everything. Every unspoken promise.
Every quiet morning. Every unguarded look from across a room. Every stolen moment that led to this.
When he pulls back, his voice is rough.
“I’ve loved you since long before I ever had the right to.”
I close my eyes, tears slipping fresh down my cheeks.
And for the first time in a long time I don’t feel scared.
Will’s thumb brushes the tears from my cheeks, but more keep falling. Happy ones. Overwhelmed ones. The kind that only come when your world breaks open in the best possible way.
I don’t say anything. I just pull him down to me.
The kiss starts slow, reverent. But there's a tension under it. My hands find the hem of his shirt, and he lets me pull it up and over his head. My palms slide over his chest, feeling the heat of him, the way his heart thuds hard beneath my touch.
He watches me with eyes full of emotion, hands cupping my face like he’s memorizing it.
“This isn’t just sex anymore,” I whisper, breath catching. “This is everything.”
His forehead touches mine. “It’s always been everything.”
Then he kisses me again and this time, it’s deeper. Hotter. His mouth moves over mine like he’s claiming it, like he’s thanking me with every slow pass of his lips, every scrape of his teeth.
Clothes fall away slowly, piece by piece, between kisses that leave me breathless. There’s no rush. No frantic grabbing. Just his hands gliding over my skin like I’m something precious. Sacred. His.
He lays me down gently on the cot we set up, stretching over me, his weight pressing into mine, grounding me.
“You’re so damn beautiful,” he murmurs, trailing kisses from my throat to the curve of my breast. “I don’t think you even know what you do to me.”
His mouth finds a soft spot beneath my ribs and lingers, worshipful. His hand slides down my thigh, guiding my leg around his waist as he settles between them.
When he finally pushes inside, it’s slow, deep, and deliberate.
I gasp, arching into him, hands fisting in the sheets.
We move together in a rhythm that feels as old as the stars. Not frantic, not rough, but with purpose. With intensity. Like he’s trying to burn this moment into both of us.
“I love you,” I whisper against his neck.
He thrusts deeper. “Say it again.”
“I love you.”
Again.
“I love you.”
My body tightens around him, breath breaking as I fall apart, wrapped in the strength of his arms and the heat of everything we are. He follows a heartbeat later, groaning my name like it’s the only word left in his vocabulary.
When it’s over, we don’t move.
We just stay there, pressed together, sweat-damp and trembling, hearts beating in sync.
He brushes his lips over my forehead.
“We made something real,” he whispers. “Something that’s gonna last.”
And with his arms around me, his heart under my hand, and his child possibly already growing inside me I believe him.