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“No,” she says. “It really should not have been.”

My grip tightens on the wheel.

She looks back at me. “And the car.”

“The car?”

“You telling the driver nearest hotel.” Her voice drops slightly. “Like it was already decided.”

“It was decided after you asked.”

“I know.”

The air between us goes hot in a way that has nothing to do with the heater.

I turn onto her street.

She notices. “This is me.”

“I know.”

I pull up in front of her building and put the car in park.

For a moment, neither of us moves.

The engine idles softly. Her building entrance is lit, the steps damp from earlier rain. She should get out. I should let her.

Instead, she turns toward me. “I’m not inviting you up,” she says.

“I know.”

“I can’t.”

“I know.”

“It’s not because I don’t want to.”

I turn in my seat. “Maggie.”

“I know,” she says quickly. “I know. It’s complicated and messy and stupid and I’m pregnant and I don’t even know⁠—”

I reach for her. Just my hand at the side of her neck, thumb along her jaw.

She stops speaking. Her eyes lift to mine.

“You don’t have to explain every feeling before you’re allowed to have it,” I say.

Her face changes. The defenses don’t vanish, but they lower enough for me to see her.

She leans in first and I meet her halfway.

The kiss starts careful because I mean for it to. Because she’s pregnant, because she’s overwhelmed, because we’re parked outside her building and every reason to stop is sitting in the car with us.

Then she makes a sound against my mouth. Soft. Needy. Familiar.

I slide my hand into her hair and kiss her harder. She turns fully toward me, one hand gripping my coat, the other braced against my chest. Her mouth opens, and all at once I’m back in the hotel room, in the elevator, in the dark heat of her body wrapped around mine.

She pulls away just enough to breathe. “Dalton,” she whispers.