Bonus Chapter 2
Diana's POV
He set the pastries and flowers on the kitchen counter with careful precision, then turned to face me.
"You should eat," he said quietly. "Before the coffee gets cold."
I unpacked the bag. Croissants from the French bakery two blocks over—the expensive kind with real butter. My favorite. How did he even know that?
I poured coffee—he'd brought two cups—and we stood there in my tiny kitchen, morning light slanting across the worn linoleum, and I tried desperately to act normal, to not read significance into every gesture.
But I could feel him watching me, could sense the tension coiling tighter, and when I finally risked a glance up, the expression on his face was so raw that I nearly dropped my coffee.
"Diana," he said, and my name sounded like a question and an apology and a confession all at once. "Why do I get the feeling you're trying to keep me at arm's length?"
My throat closed up. I set down my coffee cup, scrambling for words to deflect.
But he didn't wait. He ran a hand through his hair and said, "The past few days, I wasn't avoiding you. I was preparing something. Because I needed to show you, not just tell you, that I'm serious about this. About you."
The kitchen seemed to shrink. I couldn't move, couldn't breathe, could only watch as he pulled out his phone and turned the screen toward me.
A real estate listing. A small house on the outskirts of the city, modest but charming, with a garden and large windows.
"I closed on it two days ago," he said quietly. "I know you have trouble with security, with trusting that people will stay. And I get it—your mom, the way she was hurt, the walls you've had to build." He took a breath. "I can't just tell you I'm not going anywhere. Words are easy. So I wanted to show you that I'm planning a future. That I'm making space for you in my life in a way that's permanent and real."
I stared at the photo, at the house that looked like something out of a dream I'd never let myself have, and felt my defenses crack straight down the middle.
"I want you to be my girlfriend, Diana," he continued, and the earnest formality of it nearly undid me. "I want to introduce you to my parents, to my friends, as the woman I'm building a life with. I want to come home to you and wake up next to you and fight about whose turn it is to do dishes." He paused, uncertain smile tugging at his mouth. "I want all of it. With you. If you'll have me."
The silence stretched out, fragile and enormous. I felt tears prick at my eyes and turned my head sharply, but my voice came out rough anyway.
"You bought a house."
"Yeah."
"What if—" I had to stop, swallow hard. "What if I said no? What if all this was for nothing?"
He was quiet for a moment, and when I finally looked at him, his expression was utterly without guile.
"I didn't think about that," he admitted, almost sheepish. "I just knew I needed to give you something concrete. Something you could hold onto when the doubts started. I needed you to know that I'm all in, that this isn't temporary." He stepped closer. "I'm not good at this, Diana. I don't have the right words. But I'm trying to show you that you're safe with me. That I'm not going anywhere."
A tear escaped, and I turned away, furious with myself.
"Diana—" His voice cracked with alarm. "What did I do wrong?"
"Nothing," I managed, sharp and defensive. I swiped at my eyes. "Next time, don't disappear for days just to prepare some grand gesture. I'll believe you even without the surprise. I need—" My voice wavered. "I need you to just be here. Consistently. That's what I'm not used to."
The words hung between us, more honest than I'd meant to be.
Instead of backtracking, he said quietly, "I'm sorry. You're right. I should have told you what I was doing." A pause. "Can I show you the house? It's ready. I think you'll like it."
Something in my chest cracked wide open.
"When?" I heard myself ask.
"Today, if you want. Right now. Whenever you're ready."
I turned to face him fully, this man who'd somehow slipped past every defense, who'd bought a house because he thought I needed proof.
"Jack," I said, voice steadier now. "Are you asking me to be your girlfriend?"
He blinked, and then a slow, dazed smile spread across his face. "Yeah. I am. Did you—" Hope and uncertainty warred across his features. "Are you saying yes?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice, and the smile that broke across his face was like sunrise.
For a moment, we just stood there in my cramped kitchen, and then he moved—three quick steps—and pulled me into his arms.
I went rigid for half a second, old instincts screaming, but then his hand came up to cradle the back of my head, gentle and sure, and I felt something in me simply surrender.
I buried my face in his shoulder, breathing in the scent of him—coffee and cedar and something clean and indefinably Jack—and let myself have this. Let myself believe that maybe I didn't have to be alone.
"I've got you," he murmured into my hair, and the words were so simple, so devastatingly earnest, that I felt the last of my resistance crumble.
When I finally pulled back to look at him, his eyes were bright, almost stunned.
"So," he said, voice rough. "Girlfriend?"
"Girlfriend," I confirmed, and the word felt strange and terrifying and absolutely right.
He kissed my forehead, soft and reverent, and then said, "The croissants are getting cold."
I laughed, the sound startled out of me, and felt something loosen in my chest.
We ate breakfast together, his knee bumping mine under the small table, and when he asked if I wanted to see the house, I said yes.
Yes to the house, yes to him, yes to the terrifying possibility that maybe I was allowed to want this.
And for the first time in longer than I could remember, I let myself hope that I wouldn't regret it.