*

I don't want to get my hopes up.

I can't afford to get my hopes up.

But I just had an interview with Aisha King-Evans and a few of her senior account executives and it went well. It went well. Fuck, I think it went really well.

But I can't get my hopes up. She told me she'd get back to me within a couple of days so I guess I'm in for forty-eight hours of shaking hands and the nervous shits while I wait for the email that will decide my future. I've barely been able to think straight for the past day, up until the interview – I kept zoning out only to realize Storie was talking to me, because my brain has been so full of everything I need to remember to impress the people I need to impress.

Now it's done. An hour of my life on a cold, disgusting January day will decide whether I get a job that will change my life – I'll go from desperately clutching at any ten-bucks-an-hour odd job to a career. One that comes with comprehensive health insurance and dental and it even has paid parental leave. When I asked about job benefits, I was expecting Aisha to tell me about basic insurance and PTO and casual Fridays. I certainly wasn't expecting her to reel off this ridiculously long list of perks, including the entitlement to three months of paid leave if I have a kid.

There's nothing else I can do except wait and hope and I am hoping hard.

I don't know how I got home after the interview. It's only two blocks away but I don't remember the walk, no recollection of anything between saying goodbye to Aisha and letting myself into the apartment, but before I know it I'm leaning my forehead against the window, staring out at the city and trying to get my pulse under control. Every time I manage to distract myself I end up thinking about what it'll be like to have money I've earnt myself, to be able to treat Storie the way she deserves to be treated – explosive flowers; dinners out; trips all over the country – and there goes my heart again, hammering so hard it feels like it's trying to break out of my chest.

The sound of a key in the lock finally breaks me from my trance and it's only when Storie steps in with a shiver, brushing snow from her coat as she hangs it up behind the door, that I realize it's past six o'clock. The interview ended two hours ago and I've been stuck in a trance ever since.

"Hey!" She beams at me and I melt. "How'd it go?"

"All my fingers and toes are crossed," I say. "I think it went well."

"That's amazing!" She claps her hands together and then pulls me into a hug, and I sink against her body, relishing the comfort of her hug. "I'm so glad. You deserve this," she says, still holding me tight. She has such faith in me and all I want to do is make her proud, to truly deserve her – Astoria Sovany is too good for me but I don't ever want to let her go. "When will you hear back, d'you reckon?"

"She said a couple of days." I push my hair off my face, gathering it at the nape of my neck before letting go with a sigh. "I felt really good about it in the moment but god, Storie, I don't know. I've felt good about interviews before."

"But you've got Kaylani's endorsement, right?" Storie rubs my arm, those dark eyes boring into me. "It's not like this is just any interview – there's a healthy dose of nepotism here."

"Don't say that!"

"Hey, if you've got it, use it," she says, chuckling. "You think we'd be living here if it wasn't for Kris?"

I look around our apartment, this cozy little place that feels like home already in what little time I've lived here. "Thank fuck for Kris."

"Thank fuck for Kris," Storie agrees, "and thank fuck for Kaylani."

She doesn't often swear but it always amuses me when she does – the words sound foreign coming from her mouth, which twitches into a smile right before I kiss her. My nose presses into her cheek, my body presses into hers, and there's a moment when I can't breathe but I don't care because I'm holding my whole world in my arms.

"I love you so much," I murmur when we pull apart, lowering my forehead to hers. I never realized how much it's possible to love someone until Storie and I were apart and it crushed me, like my lungs forgot how to inflate without her, like my heart couldn't remember how to beat in time.

"I love you too." She kisses me. "Now, not to burst this little bubble, but have you thought about dinner at all? I'm not sure what I want."

"I haven't," I say with a wince. "Sorry. My head's been one hundred percent interview mode all day." I run through my mental list of our favourite meals but nothing jumps out at me and I don't really feel like cooking right now. As gross as it is outside, I feel like getting out of the apartment. "Want to go out? There's a new Thai place that's supposed to be pretty good. Or that tapas place we keep walking past?"

Storie's face lights up. "It's like you're reading my mind."

*

Thai it is. I can't remember the last time I ate Thai food but my stomach groans at the smell as we walk through the door and we're led to the table that Storie reserved half an hour ago. The spicy, comforting aroma envelops me like a warm hug in this shitty weather and I can feel my nerves untangling as we take a seat in a cozy corner table. We have a great view of the whole restaurant from here and I see that look in Storie's eyes; I know she's doing what she and her mom always do. She's watching the people around us and inventing stories for them, making up their names and who they are and why they're here.

But she isn't totally lost in her own world because she nudges my foot under the table and gives me that soft smile, the one that is as calming and rejuvenating as a warm bath, and I melt.

"Don't stress," she says, her hand finding mine and holding it tight enough to be reassuring. She does that when she's trying to pull me out of my own head. "There's nothing you can do now – you've done as much as you can and it's out of your hands. So let's enjoy a good meal, a couple of drinks, and a quickie in the bathroom."

I choke on my water. "What?"

"Just making sure you were listening." She beams, all cute and innocent, and doesn't bat an eye when the server comes to take our order way too soon after we've sat down – not that we need to look at the menu, though, when we both know we're both having the pad thai. She orders a bottle of wine, too, the words sauvignon blanc rolling off her tongue with perfect fluidity, and I feel so behind. Like she has grown so much in the last four years and I've been stagnating. She is a fragrant rose in full bloom, and I'm a mushroom that's been trapped away in a dank and musty cupboard, getting paler and uglier and more bitter.

But she has flung open the doors. I am no longer shrouded in shadow but bathed in light, her glow reflecting off me, and holy fuck I need to get this job because I want to give her the most perfect wedding someday.

"What's on your mind?" she asks, sipping her wine.

"You," I say, and at the risk of coming on way too strong so early in the second chance of our relationship, I add, "Just thinking about how much I can spend on our wedding if I get this job."

Storie grins. Fuck, she's so beautiful when she smiles. I mean, she's fucking stunning anyway, but that smile? It's revolutionary. "At least half a year's salary," she says.

"That's an expensive wedding."

"Thirty thousand? Pfft. Pocket change."

"I hope you're joking." I widen my eyes and hers crease.

"Of course I am, don't be an idiot. And anyway, it's not the wedding you want to spend the big money on – save that for the honeymoon. I'd much rather get married at city hall and then travel all over the country."

I whip out my phone and pretend to write that down. "Duly noted. And, while we're on this topic, how would you like to be proposed to?"

She laughs and gently kicks me and says, "Oh, so this isn't the proposal?"

"I think I can do better than this."

"So do I," she says. She doesn't answer the question, but even in that bit of banter I've learned everything I need to know – Storie's open to the idea of marrying me. Even if we're only joking, there's got to be some truth in there else she'd have looked panicked, or it would have been awkward.

She holds up one finger. "Just..."

"Yeah?"

"Don't get me a ring." She wiggles her fingers and wrinkles her nose. "I don't wear rings. Hate the feel of things between my fingers."

I can't tell how serious she's being. I know she doesn't wear jewellery – I would never be so foolish as to propose to her with a diamond ring – but she's talking like this is an inevitability.

"Oh, and make sure I look nice when you do it, because my mom will want pictures and I don't want to be half asleep or naked."

Now I'm picturing her half asleep and naked. All cute and dozy, all soft and bleary-eyed, and she thumps me when she realizes where my mind has gone.

"Hey. Stop mentally undressing me."

"You brought it up! You can't put an image in my mind and tell me off for looking at it."

"Have a little patience and you can look at the real thing," she says.

For some reason all thoughts of the interview and the job fly out of my head because now all I can think about is her. In my arms. In my head. In our bed. I can feel my cheeks going red and it must be obvious because Storie gives me that knowing look, the one that says ten bucks says you don't wanna stand up right now, and she'd win that bet hands down.

Our food arrives pretty quickly and we dig in with gusto because it smells incredible and it tastes phenomenal – it's the kind of food that tastes so good, I'm already sad that it's going to be over soon before I've even eaten a third of my meal. The wine pairs perfectly with it, going down so smoothly I barely notice I've drunk a whole glass until Storie tops me up, and after a second glass, I have that gently pleasant buzz where the world feels a little more cushioned; my thoughts are a little less sharp.

It's raining by the time we leave. Neither of us have an umbrella or even a jacket – a bit of an oversight in January in Cleveland – but the restaurant isn't far from home, so we walk back hand in hand in companionable quiet. Most weeknights are spent in that kind of comfortable silence: Storie has a word quota most days that is used up at work, her social energy bar spent by the time she gets home, and as much as I love chatting with her about everything and nothing, I equally love the time we spend together doing our own thing. If I want to watch something she's not interested in, rather than going to our room or the spare room that's been turned into a library, she'll curl up next to me on the sofa with a book and she'll zone out of whatever I'm watching to slip into a hyperfocus.

It's only nine when we get back, too early for me to go to bed and actually fall asleep, so I turn on the TV and flick through the channels as Storie potters around in the kitchen, humming to herself as she makes chamomile tea and chooses a new book after she finished her last one this morning before work.

"Anything on?" she asks. I'm still skipping through the guide, way past any of my favourite channels.

"Nope."

"I'm going to take a bath," she says, a thick book tucked under her arm and a steaming mug in one hand, a candle and a lighter clutched in the other. "Want to join me?"

By far one of the best features of this apartment is the bath: a giant, deep corner tub that we can easily share, with space on the side for a couple of wine glasses and a couple of candles.

"If I ever say no to that, you can go ahead and push me out of the window," I say, switching off the TV and throwing the remote aside, my Henley already off by the time I'm standing.

"I don't think the windows open wide enough," Storie says, her eyes sliding down my body and back up with an appreciative smile. I'm not nearly as fit as I used to be in college – back then I had abs and a tan; now my jeans dig in a bit and I'm pastier than I'd like, even in January – but if Storie cares, she's never mentioned it.

I start running the water, lining the faucets up with the notches Storie has made to mark the perfect balance of hot and cold, and I squirt in a generous amount of bubble bath until the water starts to foam and the place smells like a lavender heaven. Storie dims the lights to the setting we have nicknamed sexy bath time – low enough to be moody and romantic and atmospheric, but not so dark that she can't read – and lights the candle as I shimmy out of my jeans and underwear.

I've always been a showerer despite growing up in a family of bathers, but Storie has taught me the true pleasure of a sudsy bathtub and an aromatic candle, and the therapeutic power of relaxing in a tub of hot water. Though I must admit, most of the pleasure comes from sharing it with her, our limbs a slippery tangle beneath the surface. One thing I've learnt about sharing a bath is the importance of keeping my toenails cut short.

Once the bath's ready and I sink into the steaming water, my skin prickles at the sudden heat until I get used to it and I feel my muscles relax, my whole body slackening in the water. Storie steps in, the flickering light of the candle dancing over her thighs and her ass, reflecting in her irises as she smiles at me.

"This is the life," she murmurs as she sinks down until only her head and her breasts are above the water, our legs slotted together, her toes grazing my inner thigh in a way that sends a shiver of excitement through me.

This is the life. Classical music is playing on her Bluetooth speaker and I could drift off like this, listening to smooth jazz and the crackle of her wood wick candle and the hush-hush sound of her turning pages. I close my eyes and rest my head against the lip of the tub, breathing in the sweet combination of the vanilla cookie candle and the lightly floral bubble bath, and a waft of gentle chamomile when Storie sips her tea.

And then my phone rings, cleaving the moment in two. I don't recognise the sound at first because my phone lives on silent mode, but I turned the volume up after I sent that first email to Aisha to make sure I didn't miss a thing, and when it clicks that someone's calling me, my heart leaps to my throat and chokes me.

Storie raises her eyebrows and pulls them together. "Far too late to call," she says, glancing at the clock over the door. It's nine thirty, a weird and kinda antisocial time for a call, so of course my anxious brain jumps to conclusions – that it's my mom, that something horrible has happened – so I slosh bathwater over the side when I sit up too fast and lean over to scrabble for my pants, damp hands pulling my phone out of my pocket.

It's an unknown number, which could well be a hospital, or one of my brothers in crisis borrowing a stranger's phone, or—

"Just answer it," Storie says softly, breaking through my panicked inertia. I swipe up and try not to drop the phone in the bath.

"Hello?"

"Hi, is that Liam?"

"Um, yes, who's this?" I ask, trying to place the vaguely familiar voice.

"Hi, Liam, it's Aisha King-Evans," she says, and shit, my heart just about stops. She carries on before I can say anything. "I know it's late and a bit of an odd time to call but I just wanted to let you know that I've been working on a project this evening and I kept thinking about your interview earlier.

"Oh yeah?" It's all I can think to say when I don't know if that's good or bad.

"I was really impressed – we all were – by your passion and your drive and the way you came across to us. I know you may not have the experience, but everyone has to start somewhere, and I want to take a chance on you, Liam."

Fucking hell. I actually gasp. "Are you ... are you serious?"

Aisha laughs. "I wouldn't joke about something like this. We think you'll make a great addition to the team."

"Oh my god. Wow. I can't believe this." All professionalism has gone out the window – I mean, shit, I'm finding out I got my dream job while in the bath with my girlfriend. Storie's looking quizzically at me but I can't focus on anything but the phone call right now.

Aisha chuckles again and says, "I take it you accept the job?"

"Of course! Absolutely! I can't thank you enough."

"I look forward to you joining the team, Liam. Are you able to come in at some point this week to go over details?"

"Yes, yeah, I'm free all week, any time."

"Okay, how about tomorrow at twelve?"

"I'll be there."

"Fantastic. Congratulations, Liam. See you tomorrow!"

Once the call's over I drop my phone on top of my jeans and let out a mammoth breath and Storie asks, "Who was that?"

"Aisha King-Evans," I say. I can't stop the most enormous grin from cracking my face in half, so painful in the best way. "I got the job."

"Oh my god!" she cries, shooting up and getting water everywhere. Her foot slips and I choke when her heel connects with my balls, the pain as intense and immediate as a fastball to the stomach. For a moment I feel faint, like I might throw up. Storie's expression has switched from elation to consternation.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry, are you okay?"

The major downside of sharing a slippery bath is the wildly increased chance of a foot in the dick. I can only groan in response, picturing my balls turning black and blue from the force of her accidental kick.

"I'll survive," I manage at last, assuaging the fear in Storie's eyes. As the pain subsides, I remember the call I just had and I could cry with relief (and a little bit of testicular pain, too). "Fuck, I got the job, Storie. I got it."

And then I'm crying, and there's water everywhere, and Storie doesn't know what the hell to do with a boyfriend who is clutching his dick and crying in the bath because he finally has a fucking job, after four years of relentless grunt work and scraping by. She blows out the candle and gets out of the bath, pulling on a dressing gown before she turns the lights up and holds out her hands to help me out of the bath. Once I'm out, with a towel wrapped around my waist, she rests her hands on my hips and stares into my eyes.

"You got the job?" she asks, her voice far softer than her feet.

"I got it. She wants me to go in tomorrow to discuss details but shit, I got it."

"Liam, that's..." She trails off, her eyes shining as she wells up and sniffs. "That's incredible. I'm so proud of you. You deserve this."

"I don't know about tha—"

"Stop. You do. You've worked your ass off for years. This is the least you deserve." She stands on her tiptoes to kiss me, her hands still planted on my hips. I moan against her lips and I can feel her smile, her damp cheek pressing into mine.

"I didn't actually wash," she says when we pull apart, looking at the bath, the water still rippling.

"We could get back in," I say, my nose rubbing hers, my teeth nipping her lip, "or we could make it worth it, get a little dirtier first?" I nudge the door that joins the bathroom to the bedroom, where our neatly made bed sits waiting for us.

Her laugh is low and dirty. "I didn't damage you too badly, then?"

"I think I can handle it." I stand in the doorway and pull her close, burying my face in her neck, warm and wet and lavender sweet. Her hands slip from my hips to my towel. It's on the floor in seconds. I push her dressing gown off her shoulders and revel in the moonlight that floats through the bedroom window and drapes itself over her shoulders like a blanket.

I got the job. I got the girl. And someday I'm gonna marry her.

*

it's been a while! again! i will be finishing off this story during nanowrimo so you can expect this to be complete by the time december rolls around, in time for me to return to another of my unpublished christmas books that i want to finish! things are starting to turn around for liam at last! i hope you enjoyed this belated chapter :) <3