Months Later
One Thursday morning, my phone detonated in my hands. Not buzzed. Not chimed. Detonated.
Sammy: Baby shower prep! We’re doing it at Alex’s place. Don’t argue. Just show up and look stunning. His brother is hot. Should I bring my pink stilettos or the thigh-highs? Also—tiny cupcakes or full cake?
I voted for the cake. With edible glitter. Fight me.
I stared at the screen, blinking like my brain had briefly left my body. Baby shower. At Alexander’s penthouse. Hosted by Sammy, who thought “subtle” was a personal insult.
Slowly, I turned my head. Alexander sat across from me at the kitchen island, laptop open, sleeves rolled, jaw intent as he reviewed something that looked important enough to start or end a small war.
He looked calm. Focused. Entirely unbothered by the fact that my best friend was about to unleash chaos inside his very expensive, very controlled space. “Did you,” I asked carefully, holding up my phone, “give Sammy permission to host the baby shower here?”
He didn’t even look up. “Yes.” Just like that. No hesitation. No follow-up questions. No concern for his furniture, his reputation, or the structural integrity of his living room.
“You do realize,” I continued, incredulous, “that she’s going to treat your penthouse like it’s a club in Ibiza?”
His fingers paused on the keyboard. Finally, he glanced up at me—eyes warm, mouth faintly amused. “If it makes you smile,” he said evenly, “she can repaint the walls.”
Something in my chest cracked open. No conditions. No limits. No quiet calculation of what was reasonable. Just—if it makes you happy. I felt it then. The full, terrifying weight of how deeply he loved me. Not possessive in that moment. Not dangerous. Just absolute.
Unquestioning. Willing to hand over his perfectly ordered world to my chaos without blinking.
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. I just sat there, heart swelling, eyes burning, completely undone. And right there in my seat—I melted.