I walk to the house with jelly legs. It’s a damn miracle I don’t trip on the brick. As I knock on the door, I clutch the flowers I picked up from the market in town on my lunch break, careful to not damage any of the fragile petals. The door creaks open, revealing a radiant Emma.

My heart seizes at the sight of her. It burns as I take in the dark blue dress matching her eyes, contrasting against her pale skin. It hugs her body in the best ways, showing off her soft curves. Her hair is pulled back away from her face, half up half down. She looks like an angel from heaven above, just missing a halo.

“Hi,” I rasp, words evaporating from my vocabulary. “You look beautiful.”

“Hi yourself.”

“These are for you,” I say, thrusting the bouquet into her hands.

“Sunflowers! Oh, Henry, they’re gorgeous! Thank you so much! Come in so I can put these in some water. I’m ready to go, so it’ll only take a second.”

I follow her inside, closing the door behind me and taking in the modest living space while she busies herself out of sight. It’s not big, and everything is so perfectly her. The throw blankets. The laptop on the coffee table. A stack of books sitting beside the couch.

It feels like a home.

The bright yellow walls radiate sunshine and warmth. The hardwood floors have scratches and dings. The walls are covered in framed photos. There’s a bookshelf in the corner, overflowing with spines arranged by color, a rainbow of literature ranging from black to bright pink. There’s not enough space on it, and books have started to take over the floor, too.

I have this urge to buy a house with her that’s much, much larger. A house that can hold more bookshelves, as well as a white picket fence. A lawn. A porch swing for her to sit on as we watch the sunset.

Domesticity.

Another word that’s never presented itself to me before, yet here I am, ready to grab a goddamn hammer and nails and build her floor-to-ceiling shelves so I can stock them with any book her heart desires.

How many books, Emma?

How many books would make you happy?

A hundred?

A thousand?

A million and one?

Say a number, and it’s yours, honey.

Let me be the one to give it to you.

Dragging my eyes to the leather couch in the center of the room, I bite back a grin, wondering how many times she sat in that very spot, conversing with me and unaware of what was waiting for us in the future.