Now, Sir. (Part 30): Eight Scoops, One Shower, And a Man Who Pays Attention

This man really said: dessert, devotion, and don’t worry about a thing.

By now, you already know the truth:
He’s not the father.

And after all the waiting, praying, spiraling, pacing, and pausing—Friday afternoon gave us something I didn’t even realize we were starving for.

Closure.

But before I take you into the sweetness of how the day ended, I want to say something that’s been sitting heavy on my chest.

I will never understand the kind of woman who uses pregnancy to manipulate a man.

I’m not talking about women who are scared, overwhelmed, or navigating complicated feelings in early motherhood. I’m talking about the women who know they’ve been with multiple people—but still choose the one with the best income, the softest heart, the biggest potential for protection.

Because deep down, they don’t want partnership.
They want rescue.
And that’s not the same thing.

You don’t pick someone because he’s the “better dad on paper” and then try to convince him that this baby is his. That’s not just manipulative—it’s dangerous. Emotionally, spiritually, financially. For everyone.

Too many men get caught in this web because they loved the wrong person at the wrong time.
And too many children grow up never knowing who their real father is—just because their mother made a decision rooted in fear or strategy instead of truth.

I’ll never relate to that kind of woman.
And I hope to God I never become her.

I don’t say this from a place of judgment. I say this from a place of exhaustion. Because watching someone try to quietly wreck the life I’m building—just because she thought she could—nearly broke me.

But here we are.
Standing on the other side of it.

And after that moment in the kitchen—after the tears, the prayer, the hug that nearly collapsed both of us—I had to pull myself together and go to work. Life doesn’t pause just because your personal world tilts.

So I left the house.
Focused. Wired. Quietly relieved.
Knocked out meetings. Checked in with my team. Pushed through the rest of the day with that weird, weightless feeling you get after a storm finally passes.

I didn’t get home until 10:30 p.m.
Tired. But not heavy.

And all I wanted was one thing:
That pistachio gelato I had been craving for days.

Imported straight from Italy.
Nutty. Creamy. Ridiculously rich.
The one from Oste—this cozy little spot in LA that barely shows up on delivery apps and closes before I ever have time to grab it myself.

I had told Sir about it all week.
“Babe, I don’t know what it is, but I’ve been dreaming about this gelato. I think I need it.”

He laughed every time.
But he remembered.

When I walked into the kitchen, the lights were dim, soft music playing through the Sonos, and there was this small white box tucked in the freezer like it had been waiting for me.

I pulled it out.

Opened it.

And there it was.
Eight perfect scoops of pistachio.

I turned around slowly. “You didn’t…”

Sir leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “I did.”

“But they don’t even deliver.”

“They don’t. So I called the restaurant, placed the order over the phone, and hired a courier to go pick it up.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m really not. The server who took my card information over the phone and made it happen.”

I just stood there.
Mouth open.
Heart spinning.

Because it wasn’t about the ice cream.
It was about the gesture.

About being understood. Remembered. Loved in a language that doesn’t ask me to explain myself.

I kissed him.
Right there in the kitchen.
Held his face in my hands and whispered, “You know me too well.”

He smiled. “I just pay attention.”

We shared it like kids—me on the counter, him between my legs, both of us grinning over each bite. I think I told him it was the best thing I’ve ever tasted at least six times.

Because it was.

After a few minutes, I slid off the counter and whispered, “I’m gonna go shower.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You want company?”

I bit my lip. “Wanna wash my hair?”

He didn’t even blink. “Absolutely.”

We walked to the bathroom in silence, like we both already knew what this was. The air was warm, thick with anticipation. I peeled off my shirt, unhooked my bra, and stepped into the steam.

The water was hot. The way I like it.
A full-body rinse of the week behind me.
Of every doubt, every delay, every dragged-out maybe.

He came in behind me a moment later.

Picked up the shampoo.
Lathered it in his hands.
And started working it through my hair with the kind of focus that should be illegal.

His fingers moved slow. Circular. Intentional.

And the whole time, he didn’t say a word.

Because we didn’t need words.

I turned to face him. Water streaming down both of us. And when our eyes met, I felt it—that familiar shift. The one that turns tension into something feral.

He tilted my chin up.

Kissed me.
Soft. Deep. The kind of kiss that says I want you, not just your body.