“It’s for you and the baby,” he said, resting his elbows on the table.

“For the crib, the changing table, whatever you need for the nursery.”

A waitress in a striped apron stopped by our table and set down a fresh cup of coffee for Julian and a glass of ice water for me.

Neither of us spoke until she tore off her ticket and walked back toward the counter.

Julian reached across the Formica table and covered my right hand with his palm.

His fingers were warm and callused from job sites, familiar in a way that made my chest tighten before I could stop it.