Updated Nov 6, 2025 • ~7 min read
The days between the HR interview and the scheduled conversation with Layla’s father felt suspended in time—beautiful and terrifying in equal measure.
At work, they were scrupulously professional. No lingering looks, no casual touches, nothing that could be misinterpreted. But everyone knew anyway. The gossip had shifted from speculation to confirmation, though no one confronted them directly.
Avery gave Layla a knowing smile in the hallway. Marcus nodded at Garrett with what looked like respect. Even Quinn from HR seemed pleased, commenting that Garrett seemed “lighter” lately.
The secret was out. Now they just had to make it official.
Wednesday evening, Layla was wrapping up an event when her phone buzzed.
FROM: Garrett
My place tonight? I’ll cook.
She smiled despite her nerves about the upcoming weekend.
You can cook?
I have hidden talents.
This I have to see.
7 PM. Bring wine. I’ll provide everything else.
Garrett’s house was a revelation.
It was beautiful—a modern townhouse overlooking the water, all clean lines and floor-to-ceiling windows. But it felt empty somehow, like a showroom instead of a home.
“Wow,” Layla said, taking in the pristine kitchen with its marble counters and high-end appliances. “This is—”
“Soulless?” Garrett supplied, already pulling ingredients from the fridge. “Yeah. I told you it doesn’t feel like someone lives here.”
“It’s not soulless. It’s just… waiting.”
“For what?”
“For someone to make it a home.” She set the wine on the counter and moved beside him. “What are we making?”
“Pasta carbonara. Simple but good. My ex-wife taught me before—” He stopped himself. “Before things got bad.”
It was the first time he’d mentioned his marriage without pain in his voice. Progress.
They cooked together, and Layla watched Garrett move around his kitchen with surprising competence. He was focused, methodical, clearly comfortable with the routine.
“You really can cook,” she said, impressed as he expertly tossed pasta with the egg mixture.
“I had to learn when I lived alone. Takeout gets old fast.” He plated the pasta, adding fresh parsley and cracked pepper. “Plus, it’s meditative. Gives my brain something to focus on besides work stress.”
They sat at his dining table—the first time he’d probably used it for an actual meal, he admitted—and the pasta was perfect.
“This is really good,” Layla said around a mouthful.
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I just didn’t peg you for domestic.”
“I’m full of surprises.” He refilled her wine glass. “Though you’re right—I don’t usually do this. Cook for people, I mean. Have people over. This place has been more like a hotel than a home.”
“Why?”
Garrett was quiet for a moment. “Because after the divorce, I convinced myself I didn’t need more than work and solitude. That wanting connection, wanting home—that was the weakness that destroyed my marriage. So I just… stopped trying.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m sitting across from you, in my house that’s never felt like mine, and for the first time in three years I can imagine what home could feel like.” His eyes met hers. “You make me want things I’d given up on.”
Layla’s throat was tight. “Like what?”
“Like Sunday mornings that aren’t about work. Like someone to come home to. Like building a life instead of just getting through days.” He reached across the table, taking her hand. “Like a future that includes more than just the next promotion.”
“I want that too,” Layla said. “With you.”
They finished dinner in comfortable silence, and Layla helped him clean up. It felt domestic and natural and right—like they’d done this a thousand times before instead of this being the first.
After, they moved to the couch with fresh wine, and Garrett pulled her close.
“Saturday,” he said quietly. “We’re really doing this.”
“We’re really doing this.”
“I’m terrified.”
“Me too.” She turned to look at him. “But we’re together. That helps.”
“What if he refuses to listen? What if he kicks us both out and never speaks to either of us again?”
“Then we deal with it. Together.” She cupped his face. “Garrett, no matter what happens with my dad, I’m choosing you. Understand? Even if he cuts me off, even if it destroys his friendship with you—I’m choosing you.”
His eyes closed, and she saw him swallow hard. “I don’t want to be the reason you lose your father.”
“You’re not. His reaction is his choice. Mine is you.”
He kissed her then—deep and desperate and full of all the fear and love tangled up between them.
“Stay tonight,” he said against her lips. “I don’t want to be alone. Not when we’re this close to—to everything changing.”
“Okay.”
They stayed up late, talking about contingency plans and best-case scenarios. Garrett showed her the third bedroom he’d set up as an office, admitting he basically lived in there when he wasn’t at the resort.
“This could be a guest room,” Layla mused. “Or a nursery someday. If you wanted.”
Garrett froze. “Nursery?”
“I mean, not now. Not for years. But—” She felt her cheeks heat. “I’m just saying, the potential is there. If things work out.”
“You think about that? Future things? With me?”
“All the time. Don’t you?”
“Every day,” he admitted. “But I didn’t think you—you’re so young, I figured—”
“I’m twenty-four, not a child. And yeah, I think about the future. Our future.” She moved closer. “Does that scare you?”
“Terrifies me. But in the best way.”
They ended up in his bedroom, and for the first time, there was no rush, no urgency. Just slow discovery and tender touches and the quiet certainty that this was real.
Afterward, lying tangled together, Garrett traced patterns on her shoulder.
“I used to think love was about grand gestures,” he said quietly. “Expensive gifts, dramatic declarations. But this—just being here with you, talking about turning spare rooms into nurseries, cooking pasta—this feels bigger than any of that.”
“That’s because it is,” Layla said. “This is the real stuff. The everyday choosing each other.”
“I choose you.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Every day. Every way.”
“Good. Because you’re stuck with me now.”
Saturday morning arrived too quickly.
They’d scheduled lunch with Layla’s father for one PM. Casual, at his house, just like dozens of lunches before.
Except this time, they’d be destroying his peace of mind.
Layla stood in front of her closet, paralyzed with indecision.
What do you wear to tell your father you’re dating his best friend?
Her phone rang. Garrett.
“Hey,” she answered.
“Hey. How are you doing?”
“Trying to figure out if there’s an outfit that says ‘please don’t hate us.'”
“If you find one, let me know. I’ve changed three times.” He sounded as nervous as she felt. “We could still cancel. Postpone. Give ourselves more time—”
“No. We’re doing this today. We’ve put it off long enough.”
“You’re right. You’re right.” A pause. “I love you. Whatever happens today.”
“I love you too. We’ve got this.”
“Do we?”
“We have to.”
They arrived separately—Garrett first, Layla ten minutes later. Her father greeted her with his usual bear hug, oblivious to the tension thrumming through her.
“There’s my girl! And Garrett’s already here, so we’ve got the whole crew.”
Layla forced a smile and followed him to the backyard where Garrett was setting up the grill.
Their eyes met, and she saw her own terror reflected back.
This was it.
No more hiding. No more waiting.
Time to face the music.
And pray they all survived it.
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