Page 150 of Double Standards
Before I can swallow the knot in my throat, strong arms wrap around my waist from behind. Axel’s warmth presses into my back and it’s like the breath I was holding finally escapes. I melt into him on instinct. His lips brush the sensitive spot at my neck and my whole body sighs.
“What are you two talking about?” he murmurs, voice low, words sending a shiver across my collarbone.
“Just girl stuff,” Jem says with a bright laugh, covering for me with an ease that makes me wonder what else she knows.
Axel hums, unconvinced but not pushing. “Well, I’m ready to go when you are.”
I hang the towel I’d been twisting between my fingers back on the chair and turn to face him fully, looping my arms around his neck just to feel his closeness anchor me.
“Are you sure you want to leave the house looking like that?” I tease, letting my eyes flick up, lingering on the rainbow clips tangled in his hair.
He follows my gaze, groans, and rolls his eyes, but the smile he tries to hide is all mine.
And I laugh—free, weightless, completely, hopelessly in love.
As we drive back for the evening, my gaze drifts to the world outside the window. Parks blur past, alive with children running wild and laughing. Beyond them, gated gardens stretch wide, dogs roaming freely behind their fences. For a fleeting moment, I wonder what it would feel like to live somewhere like this—farfrom the chaos of the city, in a place that feels built for families and fresh starts.
“Axel,” I murmur. “Are you happy?” The words feel like a risk. Like I’m peeling something open that’s better left closed. But he doesn’t hesitate.
He glances at me, frowning so sharp it cuts across his whole face. For a second, he looks angry. Not at me—but at the question itself.
“Baby?”
For a second, I worry it might stay that way. But then it softens, his expression melting into something gentler.
“You think I’d be here if I wasn’t?” he says, voice low and dangerous. “You think I do anything I don’t want to do?”
A slow smile pulls at my lips, and the tight knot of anxiety in my stomach begins to loosen.
The car rolls to a stop. Axel turns toward me, lifts my hand, and presses a kiss into my palm like a vow.
“You didn’t just make me happy, Cassie. You ruined everything I thought I knew about being alone—and made me want it all anyway. You gave me something real. I don’t even know who I was before you.”
I shake my head, swallowing thickly as I gather the courage to say what’s been sitting on my chest for weeks. We’ve never talked about family before—not really. I don’t know how he’ll react, and that fear grips me in silence.
The air between us grows heavy. I can’t find the words. But Axel breaks the tension first.
“Cassie?” he repeats, voice low and threaded with confusion. He reaches for me, pulling me close, his arm winding around my waist. His strength steadies me. His lips brush my forehead, and just like that, the fear slips away.
“Would you still be happy,” I whisper, “if we had a baby?”
It’s the most vulnerable I’ve ever felt. The words hang there, fragile and exposed, and I brace myself for whatever comes next.
But then Axel smiles. And it’s not just any smile—it’s wide,boyish, unguarded. Even in the dim interior of the car, it lights up everything.
“You’re serious?” His voice is a rasp. A warning. A prayer.
I nod, biting my bottom lip, unable to speak. That's all I can manage.
He doesn’t wait. His lips crash into mine with urgency, his kiss stealing the last remnants of doubt from my body. His tongue tangles with mine, fierce and full of meaning. I feel everything in that kiss—every memory, every moment, every promise we’ve yet to speak aloud.
When he finally pulls back, breathless, his voice is rough with emotion.
“We’re having a baby,” he says, almost to himself. Then again, louder. “Fuck. We’re having a baby.”
“You’re okay with that?” I ask softly, fingers trailing up his chest. “You belong to us now,” I add, chuckling as I place my hand over my stomach.
Axel intertwines his fingers with mine in that exact moment. There’s no hesitation. No second-guessing. Just him—us.
