Page 118 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes

"Of course I am," he says without an ounce of shame. "You’re adorable when you’re bossy and half-awake."

I mutter something about insufferable men under my breath, but the truth is, my heart is already lighter than it’s been in days. Max has that effect on me. He doesn’t ask me to pretend everything’s okay. He doesn’t push when I’m not ready. He just...shows up. Again and again.

By the time I’m fully dressed, hair pulled into a quick braid, Max is already waiting by the door, keys in hand, his other hand extended toward me.

I slip my fingers into his without thinking, letting him tug me gently into the hall.

He doesn’t tell me where we’re going, doesn't give me any clues beyond a maddeningly smug look and a casual, "You’ll see."

I roll my eyes but follow him down the stairs, half-expecting him to spill the plan once we reach the car.

He doesn't, damn him.

We end up at a small brunch spot tucked away in the quieter part of the city, the kind of place with cracked leather booths and real cloth napkins, where the waitstaff knows most of the regulars by name. Max orders for us both—blueberry pancakes for me, eggs and bacon for him—and I don't argue. He knows my cravings almost better than I do.

We talk about nothing important—the renovations Silas is doing at the loft, a new project I’m working on, a weird new mushroom tea Evie convinced me to try that almost made me throw up. I laugh, a real, unguarded laugh that feels foreign.

Max watches me over his coffee cup, his gaze soft. "Missed that sound," he says quietly.

I blink rapidly, overwhelmed by the tenderness in his voice. It would be so easy to drown in it, to let all the fear and uncertainty slip away for a little while.

After we eat, Max nudges me toward the car without telling me where we’re headed next. I narrow my eyes at him as we drive, but he only shrugs, keeping one hand relaxed on the steering wheel, the other reaching across to toy absently with my fingers.

When he finally pulls into a parking lot, it takes me a second to process what I’m seeing.

It’s a baby boutique.

"Max..." I say, my voice wavering slightly.

He puts the car in park, then turns to face me. "Just to look," he says. "No pressure. No decisions today. Just...let's see what they have. You’re in your second trimester. It’s time to start making some decisions, okay?”

I don't trust myself to speak, so I just nod.

The store is absurdly charming, all soft pastels and tiny, perfect things. Max doesn't rush me. He holds my hand as we move slowly through the aisles. We linger over cribs and car seats and impossibly small socks. Max pauses at a display of onesies and pulls out one with a printed crown on the front that says, "Born to Rule."

"Seems appropriate."

I snort, the sound escaping before I can catch it. "Arrogant much?"

He just winks and drapes it over his arm, as if buying it is a foregone conclusion.

Somewhere between the shelves of ridiculously soft blankets and tiny knitted hats, the fear that’s been coiling tight inside my chest begins to loosen. This is happening. This is real. It doesn't feel impossible anymore.

It feels...manageable. Maybe even a little bit wonderful.

Max tugs me down another aisle, one lined with tiny shoes. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to rush the moment. He just lets me feel it—this small, fragile happiness blooming inside me.

When we stop in front of a display of impossibly tiny boots, he turns, cupping my chin between his fingers. There’s nothing casual about the way his gaze locks onto mine.

"I love you," he says simply.

I blink up at him, my heart tripping over itself. For a second, I can’t breathe. The world tilts, not in the terrifying, overwhelming way it has so often lately—but in the way it does when something shifts inside you permanently.

My throat tightens painfully. "Max?—"

"You don’t have to say it back," he murmurs, brushing his thumb over my bottom lip. "I don’t need anything from you. I just needed you to know."

I press my forehead against his chest, breathing him in. The familiar scent of his cologne, the steady beat of his heart, the solid strength of him—all of it wraps around me and holds me together.