We try to get up to visit my parents at least once a month, making the drive while she sleeps in the passenger seat, holding my hand across the center console. The visits have become less frequent as of late, due in part to Emma’s increased workload and the big freaking dreams I’ve been busting my ass to make happen. I finally spilled the beans and told my parents that what initially started out as a fake dating scheme between the two of us blossomed into something real. Something authentic. Something so fucking wonderful. Every single time I look at Emma, I nearly drown under a new wave of happiness. Again and again, I’m battered by the overwhelming sensation of how goddamn lucky I am to do life by her side.

My mom wasn’t fazed by the admission, letting out a laugh and saying it’s about time we were honest. Turns out, mothers really do know everything. She picked up pretty early on that we weren’t actually together. I guess with Emma, it’s been blatantly obvious to everyone but the two of us how I’ve felt about her all along.

Now? I don’t let a day go by where she doesn’t know how much I appreciate her.

After five months of dating, she moved into my apartment, saying she only agreed to shack up with me because of the city views. I catch her staring out the window early in the morning, wearing her mismatched socks, a blanket draped over her bare shoulders, smiling at the world below, just like she did the first night she visited my place. Watching her happiness over the little things in life brings me such joy; joy I didn’t know existed or could be brought on by another person. While we love the space we’ve built together in the communal building, I know she’s determined to find a stand-alone house for us to live in.

And when she does? I’m buying her every goddamn bookshelf on the surface of this earth. She doesn’t know I’ve already reached out to a local carpenter, tossing around ideas of what kind of built-ins we could construct when we find our permanent residence. I have a ton of things I want to surprise her with.

I’d do anything—and I mean anything—to make this woman happy.

“I have an idea,” I start, nerves and fear of rejection rearing their ugly heads. I’ve practiced this dozens of times, but now it’s real, and fucking hell, it’s terrifying.

“About lunch?” she shields her eyes from the sun and peers up at the steel mammoth of a structure curiously. I could have picked something less gaudy, I suppose. “What does this random building have to do with it?”

“Picture this: Our own law firm. You and me, honey. And whoever else wants to join.”