Reid
He lay in the dark and did not sleep. She had asked him for a baby.
They’d talked about it, but it had always felt so abstract, so distant.
He closed his eyes.
I want you to get me pregnant.
He had never—
He shifted against the bed. He was getting hard at the thought of it. He pressed his palm against himself.
He had never had sex without a condom. Not with anyone.
There would be nothing between them, his body and hers with no barrier, no protection.
He thought about her hands on his body.
He thought about the sounds she made.
God. The press of his palm wasn’t nearly enough. He took himself in his hand and groaned.
The sensation wasn't enough. Nothing felt like enough. Not compared to the images in his head.
Maya looking across the table at him. Maya saying yes. Maya asking for him.
His breathing grew harsher. Faster.
The quiet bedroom seemed to amplify every sound.
The rustle of sheets. The mattress shifting beneath him. The rhythm of his own movements. The pulse pounding in his ears.
He thought about her.
He wanted to give her everything.
The house, the income. The child she had asked for.
He wanted to put himself into her.
He closed his eyes. Darkness pressed in. Behind his eyelids, bursts of color flashed and scattered.
He was jerking off with purpose now, fist moving faster.
His heart was hammering. His breathing sounded too loud in the darkness.
Not just physically—though that too, God, that too—but in the permanent way. The way that couldn't be undone. The way that would exist in the world independent of whatever happened between them, whatever she decided, whether she came back or didn't.
A part of him, in her. Continuing.
He thought about her looking up at him, her hair spread across the pillow.
He was hot and insistent against his own hand, and he gripped himself tighter and thought: Maya.
He thought of her body, her warmth, the euphoria of being inside her. He was losing himself in the idea of it.
He’d give her all of himself.
His hand moved even faster, the sound it made obscene in the silence of their bedroom. He could feel his pulse against his palm.
He would give her everything she had asked for.
She would decide on everything.
He was groaning now. His grip was unforgiving, his pace, brutal.
He wanted to give her everything she wanted.
It was up to her.
He came in hot pulses over his fingers.
He lay there, breathing hard, staring at the ceiling of the bedroom that felt empty without her.
Wanting her wasn’t enough. Missing her wasn’t enough. Lying here in the dark, imagining all the things he would give her if she let him, did nothing for Maya.
He needed to get up and do something that would help her.
Reid had never made a cake from scratch before.
He had the recipe open on his phone, propped against the kettle. He had bought everything on the list. He had read it through twice before he started.
He was still getting it wrong.
The butter hadn't been soft enough and now there were lumps in the mixture he couldn't seem to get out.
He kept going.
He thought about Maya in this kitchen.
She had stood at this counter and made the cookie dough that was still in the freezer and it had probably taken her twenty minutes and turned out perfectly and she had moved on to the next thing without a second thought.
Reid scraped the sides of the bowl.
She made everything look effortless.
The energy, the warmth, the way people turned toward her without knowing they were doing it, was just something that exuded out of her.
And she took that magnetism and used it for good.
Every grant application, every contractor she charmed into giving her wholesale rates. Every volunteer she convinced to give up a Saturday. Every person who showed up because Maya had asked them to and made them feel, somehow, that showing up was the obvious thing to do.
She built that.
She built all of it.
Reid poured the batter into the tin.
And he had knocked it down in a single morning.
He slid the tin into the oven and stood there with his hands braced on the counter, staring at nothing.
One bake sale wasn’t going to undo what he had done to her reputation in this community.
But he was going to start there anyway. He was going to make as many cakes as he could.
He would work at being worthy of her. And it didn’t matter that he’d never quite get there.
Maya chose him.
And Maya Lawson deserved a man who never stopped trying.
The cakes were lined up across every available surface in the kitchen.
Layer cakes on cooling racks, sheet cakes boxed and ready for transport. Cupcakes in the plastic containers Maya used for community events. The counters were dusted with powdered sugar and streaked with frosting, and the sink was full of mixing bowls.
People would come to the community picnic tomorrow and there would be cakes on the fundraising table