Chapter 31
NORA
It Wasn’t Supposed to Be Serious
Iwake up reaching for him.
Just a reflex—stupid, hopeful muscle memory. My hand lands on a cold pillow and empty sheets.
I sigh and flop onto my back, blinking at the ceiling like it holds answers. It doesn’t. It just blinks back, blank and quiet and far too still.
The night without Max felt longer than it should’ve. I kept expecting to hear his low, sleep-rough voice whispering nonsense beside me. Or the scratch of his stubble against my shoulder.
I miss him.
It’s not just the sex, though—okay, that’s part of it. But mostly, it’s the himness of him. The casual chaos, the snarky grin, the safety of his arms. The weight of his presence.
I pull my phone from the nightstand, thumb hovering for a second before I tap out a message.
Nora:
You free tonight? I miss you. Thinking I could come over. Maybe bring dinner? Or myself in nothing but heels. TBD.
I bite my lip, rereading it twice before I hit send.
Almost immediately, those three little dots appear.
Max:
I missed you too. See you tonight at 8.00 :)
I grin into my pillow like a total idiot.
***
The moment I walk through the library doors, I feel lighter.
My keys jingle as I unlock the staff room, shrug off my coat, and slide into my usual routine. Morning returns, interlibrary loan requests, a broken printer tray that refuses to cooperate (again). Everything is just as it always is.
Except me.
There’s something different humming beneath my skin now. A low, persistent buzz. A secret.
I’m pregnant.
The words don’t hit with panic anymore. Not today. Not like yesterday, when I stared at the test until the lines blurred and my whole body felt like it was made of static.
I shelve picture books in the children’s section, pausing when I spot a tiny, dog-eared copy of Goodnight Moon. My fingers brush the spine. I picture a tiny hand pulling it off a shelf, a sleepy voice echoing mine during bedtime stories.
And just like that, a little spark flares in my chest. Joy. Wild and unexpected.
Later, during story hour, I watch a toddler with curls like question marks wobble across the rug and plop down in her mother’s lap. She squeals at the dragon puppet I’m holding, and I find myself grinning—really grinning.
Another spark.
Back at the front desk, I’m scanning returns when a little girl toddles up and proudly hands me her library card like it’s made of gold.
Her dad winks, mouthing first time. I play along, make a big deal out of it, and the kid beams. I wonder if someday, I’ll be doing this with my own child.
Signing up for a card. Reading The Very Hungry Caterpillar. Explaining how books can be friends.
The thought makes my throat tighten—but in the best way.
I can’t wait to tell Max.
And I’m going to tell him tonight.
The thought makes my pulse flutter, but not in the way it did before—not the panic or the oh-God-what-if-this-ruins-everything fear. That part has eased, settled.
Now, it’s something else. Excitement. Joy.
Hope.
I know Max. Under the tattoos and the sarcasm and the whole broody rockstar thing, he’s steady.
Protective. Kind in ways nobody could miss.
I’ve seen the softness when he makes Melody her ridiculous tuna snacks, or when he reads over my shoulder and pretends not to be invested in the end of a romance novel.
He’s going to be shocked. Definitely. Probably swear, possibly pace. Maybe rub the back of his neck like he’s physically trying to reboot.
But he won’t run.
Because I know this man. And I know what’s been building between us.
It’s not just heat anymore. Not just chemistry.
It’s in the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention.
The way he reaches for my hand automatically, like it's second nature now.
The way he listens when I talk about library programming like it matters to him because it matters to me.
I think—no, I know—I’m in love with him.And I’m pretty sure he loves me, too.
So tonight has to be special.
As soon as I’m off work, I race home to get ready for our dinner at his place
I pull out a dress I’ve worn once—soft rosé, silky to the touch, with a neckline that dips just enough to make me nervous and excited all at once. It hugs my curves without trying too hard. I smooth it over my hips, then step back to check the mirror. Not bad.
My hair’s still damp from the shower, curling into soft waves around my shoulders. I swipe on some mascara, a little tinted lip balm, and spritz the perfume he once told me made me smell “dangerously good.”
As I fasten a pair of earrings—tiny silver stars—I catch my own reflection and pause.
I look… radiant. Nervous. Hopeful.
Like a woman in love. Like a woman about to tell the man she loves that he’s going to be a father.
***
The train screeches to a halt. I step off, my boots clicking against the platform, and exhale a long breath. The kind you take before walking into something that changes everything.
Max’s penthouse is just a few blocks away.
When I arrive, the elevator doors slide open with a soft whoosh, and I step into Max’s penthouse—arms full of paper bags and nerves.
The familiar warmth hits me first—low jazz playing from hidden speakers, the rich scent of cedar and something darker, spicier, unmistakably him.
His place always surprises me, no matter how many times I’ve been here.
You expect cold, sleek, high-end bachelor vibes from a rockstar.
But this is soft chaos. Blankets draped over the back of the leather couch.
A stack of vinyl records on the coffee table.
Melody’s toys strewn like landmines across the floor.
I toe off my boots and call out, “I come bearing gifts!”
My voice echoes slightly off the marble floors. For a second, there’s no answer, and my stomach dips—stupid, irrational. He probably just didn’t hear me.
Then—“Back here!”
Relief washes over me as I carry the bags through the open-plan living room and into the kitchen, where Max leans against the counter, sleeves pushed up, a glass of something amber in his hand.
His hair’s messy like he’s been running a hand through it too much, and his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
Still, when he sees me, something flickers there—soft and stunned, like I surprised him.
“Wow. You look… amazing.” He leans over to kiss my cheek. His hand lingers on my waist for a beat longer than necessary, and I press into it without thinking. This part of us feels easy now—undeniable. Natural.
I unload the containers onto the kitchen island—pasta, garlic bread, a caprese salad that didn’t survive the subway ride entirely upright. He lifts a lid and inhales.
“Jesus, that smells good. Marry me.”
I smirk. “You haven’t even tasted it yet.”
“You brought carbs. I don’t need further proof of your worth.”
I shake my head, laughing as I grab plates from the open shelving—ones I now know weren’t purchased by him, but by Vivienne, because Max “didn’t see the point in matching ceramics.”
We eat at the kitchen island, perched on stools, elbows brushing. Max twirls his fork with absent-minded precision, eyes occasionally drifting to me like he’s checking I’m really there.
I can feel something humming under his surface—tense, restless—but I don’t press. I just keep refilling his glass, keep the conversation light. He tells me about the meeting he had yesterday. I tell him about a kid who tried to check out a rock with googly eyes glued to it at the library.
He laughs, and I relax into the sound.
“So, Max… I actually need to tell you something,” I say—and even to my own ears, my voice sounds a little too high, a little too tight.
Max looks up from his plate. The smile he had on—easy, distracted—fades the second he sees my face.
“What is it?”
My heart slams against my ribs. This is it.
No backing out now.
I swivel my chair to face him fully, the weight of the secret pressing against my ribs like it’s trying to claw its way out.
“I found out this morning,” I begin, and his brow furrows. “I was feeling off. Nauseous. Tired. And I was late. So I took a test.”
I stop. My fingers tighten where they clutch the hem of my dress.
Max doesn’t say anything. Just watches me with an expression I can’t read. Like he’s bracing.
I take a breath. Then another.
And then I say it.
“I’m pregnant.”
The words hang in the air, fragile and enormous. They don’t echo—but they might as well have. Everything in the room stills.
Max goes pale.
Not just surprise. Not just shock.
He looks… gutted.
He sets his utensils aside with more care than I’ve ever seen him take with anything. His jaw tightens. His hands curl into fists on his knees.
I wait.
One beat.
Two.
Three.
Say something. Please say something.
His eyes meet mine—and they’re wide, almost wild. “Are you sure?”
I nod. “Yeah. I took two. I checked the app. I’ve never been this late.”
Another pause. His mouth opens. Then closes again.
“Max?”
He stands too quickly. Paces to the window like he needs the skyline to steady him. His back is to me, shoulders tense, breath coming fast.
And something inside me begins to fray.
“I didn’t plan this,” I say quickly, the words rushing out. “I know it’s soon, and crazy, and not ideal—but I’m telling you because you deserve to know. Because this is yours, too.”
He turns then. And what I see in his face stops me cold.
Not joy. Not disbelief. Not even fear.
It’s doubt.
And maybe something worse.
“Nora,” he says—and my name sounds like a warning. “I need you to go.”
I blink. “What?”
“I want you to leave, Nora,” he repeats, slow and firm, like he’s speaking to a child.
He’s not looking at me anymore. He’s rubbing the back of his neck like it might erase the last five minutes. The silence stretches again, this time sharp, painful, brittle.
“Max…” My voice shakes. “What is this? I thought—after everything—we’re in this together.”
“I need you to go.” He won’t meet my eyes. “You owe me that much.”
The words sting more than I expect. Owe him? Like I did something wrong.
“But I love you,” I say, the words spilling out, raw with desperation.
If only he’d listen. If only I could make him understand what he means to me.
If only I could show him.
“Don’t.”
I freeze.
He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t move. Just that one word, hard and clipped like he’s trying not to choke on it.
“Don’t what?” I ask, because I need him to say more. Need something to hang on to.
Max finally turns toward me.
And I feel it before he speaks—something cold sliding into the space between us, invisible and heavy.
“We need to stop this.”
It doesn’t register. Not fully. I blink at him. “Stop what?”
“This,” he says, and now he’s looking me dead in the eyes. “Us.”
The words hit like a slap. No warning, no logic. Just pain.
My throat closes. “Max…”
“I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”
Something inside me splinters.
“Is this—” I swallow. “Is this about the baby?”
His jaw ticks. “It’s about everything.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means it’s not going to work. This was never supposed to be anything serious. It got out of hand.”
“Out of hand?” I repeat, voice rising. “You told me you wanted the real thing. I thought I meant something to you. And now it’s out of hand?”
He flinches like I struck him. But he doesn’t take it back. Doesn’t explain.
He just says, “I need you to leave.”
My heart falls through the floor.
I look at him, really look—at the man I let into every part of my life, every inch of my heart. And I see the wall he’s building brick by brick, faster than I can stop him.
“Do you not want the baby?” I whisper.
His silence is worse than a no.
I grab my coat with numb fingers. My heart’s in my throat, my stomach twisted into a cold, heavy knot.
I don’t know why he’s shutting down like this. I don’t know what I expected—a kiss, a nervous smile, maybe even a laugh—but not this.
Not silence. Not distance. Not retreat.
“I thought you’d be happy,” I whisper.
Max flinches.
But he doesn’t answer.
And that’s worse than anything he could’ve said.
I let myself out, the door clicking shut behind me like a gavel.
Outside, the city moves on. Horns honk. Neon flickers. The sky glows orange from light pollution and possibility.
But inside me?
Everything has gone still.