His Ring Her Rules

The penthouse, with its steel, glass, and quiet, was stunning.

It had always been chilly yet lovely, like a high-end museum exhibit. Perfect, but dead. The sort of place where people murmured rather than laughed and wore shoes indoors.

I was planning to bring a baby into this environment, though. As transient or transactional as it still felt, into our house. And wine cellars and glittering chandeliers weren't enough for newborns.

They required warmth.

I therefore began out tiny.

My parents on their wedding day, captured in mid-laugh, in a picture frame on the kitchen counter. Even though Ethan remained silent, I saw his eyes focus on it for a longer period of time the following morning than was required.

In the middle of the dining table is a bowl of lemons. Bright. Happy. Not at all necessary—and wholly mine.

Over the edge of the leather couch was a cream throw blanket. A small verdant plant at the window. A vanilla-and-homey-smelling candle.

The areas I touched became slightly softer. No longer did the walls reverberate as though they were awaiting a voice to break the stillness.

They felt like they were a part of it.

I ended up in the nursery one wet afternoon. I had silently unpacked the crib Ethan had purchased last week, along with a few books and cuddly toys, but I wasn't even close to being done.

I grinned as I took up a small plush fox and visualized a tiny hand holding its tail. It had a stitched-on smile and button eyes, like if it knew a secret it would never share.

I heard footsteps behind me at that very moment.

With his sleeves rolled up and his hair slightly mussed from running his fingers over it a thousand times today, Ethan leaned against the doorframe.

"You've been busy," he replied, looking around the room carefully. "It looks... different."

"Different or different good What have you done to my minimalist palace, God? I raised an eyebrow in question.

Grinning, he went inside. "Different wonderful"

We just stood there for a moment, surrounded by gentle creatures, pastel walls, and a coziness that had not been there in this place just a few weeks prior.

As I watched him run a finger over the cot's sleek border, I replied, "You ordered the crib."

He gave a nod. "I thought it would be the least I could do."

It ought to have sounded icy. Required. However, it didn't. Not totally.

As I put the fox back in the crib, I muttered, "I used to dream about a nursery like this." "My own had a rocking chair that creaked and awful wallpaper."

He questioned, "Why didn't you get wallpaper?"

I gave a shrug. "I thought that if I made it too real, I might jinx it."

After a moment of silence, he remarked, "Grace, it's already real."

Like a stone thrown in still water, his words became part of the silence.

I raised my head. I believe you're trying sometimes. At other times, I'm not sure if this is just a ploy to make yourself seem less like the bad guy in a poor public relations play.

Although his jaw tensed, he remained silent.

I went on, "I know this wasn't how you imagined your life to be." But now it's also mine. Additionally, I have to make it habitable for the little person who will be living here as well as for me.

Ethan took another look around the room, taking in the bookcases, the fox, and the white walls that were being softened by the sunlight.

He said, "I don't know how to do this."

The slightest smile flickered across my lips. "I don't either. Fortunately for you, though, I also bring aromatic candles and Pinterest boards.

He gave a low, infrequent laugh.

For the first time, the penthouse felt more like a home than a lease.

If just for a single shimmering, gentle moment.