His Ring Her Rules

A month ago, I would have laughed if someone had told me that Ethan Blackwood, the man who once referred to our marriage as "a transaction," would be accompanying me as I pushed a pastel-blue cart through a posh baby boutique. or sobbed. Maybe both.

But here we were.

"Do we really need all of this?" Ethan asked while displaying what looked to be a digital screen and a temperature-controlled bottle warmer with Bluetooth syncing.

I blinked. "Are you even familiar with that?"

He interpreted the label as though it were a hostile merger contract. "It's a warmer. for bottles.

 Using an app?

I gave a snort. "Because the baby will naturally want to keep an eye on the temperature of their milk from the womb."

He gave me one of his rare smirks for that. An actual one. Not the public, clipped face he wore in the boardroom or for the cameras. However, something gentler. I was almost amused.

Blackwood, Ethan. I'm amused. It might be the end of the world.

He pretended not to be overwhelmed by the wall of pacifiers shaped like rubber avocados and mustaches, and I pretended not to notice how close he was walking behind me as we continued to browse.

He inquired abruptly, "What color do you want the nursery to be?"

I looked over at him. "You're offering me an option, right?

He picked up a phone with stuffed stars and remarked, "I may be many things, but I'm not about to tell a pregnant woman how to decorate a baby's room."

Amused, I arched an eyebrow. "Degree. You will then permit me to give the baby's name without submitting an executive summary.

He muttered a laugh and carefully slipped the phone into the cart. "Grace, don't push it."

For a brief time, we were surrounded by baby swaddles that were more expensive than my whole college grocery budget. It was strange, almost unreal. As if we were ordinary. As if we were a pair. As if this child hadn't been born out of a chilly courthouse contract, a scandal, and a gala mix-up.

However…

Ethan had an odd expression on his face as I looked at him; his lips were parted and his brows were knitted, as if he wanted to say something but wasn't sure how. He was staring at a pair of ridiculously small socks.

"Are you alright?" Gently, I inquired.

Slowly, he nodded. "They're just... little."

I glanced at the socks underneath. Indeed. Infants are often

"No, I mean." He shook his head and faded off. "Never mind."

However, something had changed. His eyes showed it to me.

A silent pain. Fear, perhaps. And I hated how my chest tightened in response—how my heart softened when it should've stayed guarded.

When we arrived at the checkout, the clerk grinned at us as if we were a radiant family from Pinterest. Even though his driver was only a step away, I let Ethan to carry all the bags and let him pick everything without even looking at the total.

He looked over and gave me a bottle of water in the car without asking. "You performed well inside."

I gave a small smile. "Thank you. I consider that a victory because you didn't run yelling.

His eyes lingered a bit too long as he nodded. "Yes, it's unquestionably a win."

For once, the ensuing silence wasn't uncomfortable. Simply said, cozy.

And I gave in to one risky idea as we left the boutique with bags full of little garments and even smaller dreams:

Perhaps this was more than simply a trade.

Perhaps, just possibly, we were beginning to construct something tangible.

even though none of us was yet prepared to acknowledge it.