Chapter 35
NORA
Moving In
Afew months later…
There are boxes everywhere.
One of the movers brushes past me with a crate labeled Kitchen, Probably, while another mutters something under his breath as he tries to maneuver around a teetering tower of boxes.
“Careful with that,” Max calls out automatically—again. I think it’s the sixth time in the past ten minutes.
I glance at Max, who’s standing in the middle of the chaos like a frazzled tour manager trying to wrangle a band made entirely of moving boxes and bubble wrap.
“You’ve told them to be careful with the blender, the humidifier, and my annotated Jane Eyre,” I say, dry and amused. “But not once with the actual pregnant woman carrying her own box.”
He whirls around like I just announced I was skydiving.
I’m standing in leggings and a stretched-out T-shirt that no longer quite fits over my belly. My hair’s in a bun that’s half business, half collapse, and I’m holding a single, very manageable box. Full of bookmarks.
“Give me that,” Max says, marching over with his signature blend of rockstar authority and boyfriend panic. “You’re not lifting a damn thing, librarian.”
I sigh and hand it over, rolling my eyes. “It’s literally just bookmarks.”
“Bookmarks deserve protection,” he says, straight-faced. “What if you strain something alphabetizing them?”
I laugh. Despite the chaos, the sore feet, the general feeling of being a human nesting doll—I laugh.
I hear him set the box down, the soft sound of his footsteps crossing the room. Then his hands slide around me—gentle, steady, grounding. He rests them on the curve of my belly, and I close my eyes for a moment.
“You’re staring again,” I murmur, even though I don’t mind.
“I’m not,” he lies.
“You so are. I can feel your face doing the gooey thing.”
He laughs. “Can’t help it.”
I lean back into him, letting my head find its usual spot on his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You’re radiant and—”
I groan. “Don’t say glowing. I swear to God, Max—”
“I wasn’t going to say glowing.” He nuzzles into my hair, his voice all warmth and adoration. “I was going to say shining.”
That makes me laugh—a quiet, tired sound that’s exactly what I need. “You sap.”
He kisses my temple. Soft. Reverent.
I swear, this man loves me in a way that makes me feel seen. Beautiful. Even like this.
Over the past few months, we’ve only grown closer. We’re a team now—steady, sure. We know who we trust, and who we don’t.
When his father tries to reach out, we either ignore it or let Vivienne handle it. She’s a force of nature, I’ve come to realize. Fierce. Unshakable.
We’re still wrapped up in each other when a loud crash echoes from the hallway.
Max mutters a creative curse and steps in front of me like he’s about to wrestle a wardrobe.
“This is your fault,” I say, leaning into him. “You told me—and I quote—‘Move in whenever, it'll be chill.’ Now I’m days away from my due date and it’s definitely not chill.”
I think back to when Max first brought it up—after one of my doctor’s appointments.
We were walking back from the clinic, the weather crisp and windy, leaves tumbling across the sidewalk like they had somewhere to be.
Max had been quiet the whole way—his hand gripping mine a little tighter than usual.
At the crosswalk, he finally spoke. Not with his usual teasing grin, but with something softer. Something unguarded.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said slowly, “and I want you to move in with me.”
I blinked up at him. “Move in?”
He nodded. “I want you there. I miss you every second you’re not around. And I want to raise our child together. In a home. Our home.”
His eyes had dropped to my belly then, and I could tell he was nervous. But I wanted to say yes more than anything.
So I did. Right there in the middle of the sidewalk, with my heart stuck somewhere between my lungs and my ribs, I kissed him so hard a passerby actually clapped.
“In my defense,” he says now, sliding an arm around me, “I thought we’d hire professionals.”
“We did hire professionals.”
“Yeah, and that one just put a box labeled ‘baby stuff’ under what looks like your dumbbells.”
“They’re books,” I reply, smirking. “And they’re not dumb.”
He kisses the top of my head again, and I melt a little. He smells like coffee, dust, and that Max-scent I can never quite define.
“You good?” he asks quietly.
“Tired,” I admit. “Achy. My ankles have declared independence. I just want to lie down and not move until the baby’s in kindergarten.”
Max chuckles. “Noted. Minimal movement. Maximum pampering. We’ll deal with the nursery later. But first, I want to show you something.” He kisses the top of my head, mischievous. “Can you handle just one more flight of stairs?”
I groan. “Is it stairs to a nap?”
“Sort of,” he says, gently steering me toward the staircase that leads to the upper loft. “But better.”
I shoot him a skeptical look, but follow—slowly, clutching the rail and muttering something about betrayal. He stays close, hand ready at my back, and by the time we reach the landing, I’m winded and suspicious.
“What is this?” I ask, eyeing the closed double doors at the end of the hall. “Are you hiding a second kitten up here?”
Max grins, all smug mystery. “Open it.”
I push the doors open.
And freeze.
Sunlight floods in through wide skylights, pouring across polished wood floors and walls lined with—shelves.
Floor-to-ceiling built-in bookshelves, every inch filled with titles I recognize.
Some are old friends. Some are rare editions.
A few are clearly leather-bound collector’s pieces that have no business being in the same room as my ratty paperbacks.
A plush velvet reading chair anchors the corner beneath the largest window, flanked by a brass reading lamp and a side table already stacked with tea coasters and a jar of my favorite licorice.
There's a cozy daybed under another window, blankets folded just so, and near the far wall—a rolling library ladder.
I blink. “Max…”
He leans against the doorframe, hands in his pockets like he didn’t just casually create heaven on earth. “Welcome to your new library. Or book lair. Or magical paper cave—whatever you want to call it.”
My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “How—? When—?” The words don’t come.
I step toward the shelves like I’m approaching something sacred, eyes wide, fingers trembling. My throat tightens. “I can’t believe you did all this.”
“I just wanted you to have a space that’s yours,” he says softly. “A quiet corner of the world—safe, cozy, and filled with everything you love.”
I turn and wrap my arms around him, pressing my face into his chest. My voice is muffled when I say, “This is the most beautiful thing anyone’s ever done for me.”
He flashes that devilish grin. “Told you—I’m not just a pretty face, baby mama.”
“Don’t call me that. Not yet.”
“You called me Daddy the other night.”
“That was a very different context.”
He winks. I groan and try not to smile.
Max takes my hand, threading our fingers together like he’s sealing a vow. I rest my head against his shoulder and close my eyes for a moment. “Do you think the baby will like it here?”
Max squeezes my hand. “They’ve got a rockstar for a dad, a badass librarian for a mom, and enough books to build their own kingdom. If not, we’re in trouble.”
I smile. My heart feels like it’s grown ten sizes in the span of a sentence.
“I love you,” I murmur, just for him.
He holds me tighter, warm and unshakable. “Good. ‘Cause I love you.”
***
Turns out the movers were professionals after all—everything’s set up perfectly. But the nursery? That’s my domain. I’m not letting some random guy do my job. How hard can it be, right?
There’s a rogue screw under the dresser I’ve given up trying to retrieve, a handful of mysterious pegs I swear weren’t in the instructions, and a whole population of Allen wrenches lounging on the floor like they own the place.
I’m sitting cross-legged in leggings and Max’s old hoodie, clutching the manual like it’s an ancient scroll.
One that holds the secret to a crib sturdy enough for the tiny acrobat currently training for the Olympics inside me.
“Step fifteen,” I announce, squinting at the page. “Attach panel D to bracket F using screws labeled six. Not seven. And definitely not eight, which—surprise—you already used.”
Max looks up from the other side of the almost-crib and raises his hands like I’ve just pulled a gun. “I stand by my choices. Panel D was asking for it.”
I shoot him a look, but it’s hard to hold onto mock-annoyance when he’s grinning like that. His hair’s a mess, there’s sawdust on his shirt, and he looks so completely like someone’s future dad that my heart actually stutters.
“Remind me why we chose the crib with twelve hundred parts?” he mutters, crouching beside me.
“Because this one is aesthetically timeless,’” I reply, “And because the one you picked looked like something a tiny biker would sleep in.”
“It was rock-and-roll themed,” he says, not for the first time. “Those skulls were extremely tasteful.”
I lean over and kiss his cheek, catching a faint whiff of sweat and cedar. “You’ll survive the lullaby playlist and cloud-patterned mobile.”
He grumbles something about censorship, but he’s smiling when he slots the last piece into place and tightens the final screw.
We sit there for a moment in companionable silence, staring at what we made together—well, besides the baby. A pale wooden crib that somehow looks like it belongs here.
“Done,” Max says, leaning back on his hands. “Crib: assembled. Baby: imminent.”
I groan, pressing a palm to my belly. “Don’t say that. They’re already throwing a rave in there. I think they’re trying to punch their way out through my spine.”
Max scoots closer and runs a hand gently over the curve of my belly. “Just excited. Already wants to meet you.”
Just then, there’s a knock at the door—then another one, louder, like whoever’s out there thinks subtlety is for cowards.