A/N: As promised, I have a new chapter for you! Something pretty big is coming, and it's going to knock everything off kilter for EVERYONE. The more I write of this story, the more I want to write, and the more I appreciate all your messages and reviews. It truly means the world to me.

Song: "Then You Look At Me" by Celine Dion

"Are you sure you don't want to come with me?" Rafael came out of the bathroom, talking through a mouthful of toothpaste. "I'm sure the guys would—"

Lauren was still lying in bed, scrolling through Twitter. "Rafael, you're fine," she said. "You said it yourself, you hardly ever get to see them. I get you all the time."

He gave an approximation of a smile and wandered back into the bathroom. A minute later, he was back and sat down on the edge of the bed. "I just don't want you to feel like I'm not enjoying my time with you. I promised a getaway, but I don't want you to think that I'm trying to actually get away."

She leaned up to kiss him, clutching the sheet to her chest. "Honey, we went to a beautiful dinner and a great jazz bar last night." She smiled at the memory of him extending a hand to her and asking her to dance, saying that he was trying to make up for Prom. "Not to mention what you gave me after that," she added.

"You meant the flowers, right?" He smirked and gestured to a crystal vase on the desk that contained a dozen red roses, plus one white in the middle. He'd had them delivered while they were out the night before.

She smacked him on the arm and returned his smirk. "Oh, well, those too, I guess," she said. "Go. Have a great time. I'm quite sure I can entertain myself in Boston for a few hours."

He kissed her on the forehead. "Do you know how much I love you?"

"So much that you'll dance with me in public?" she asked.

"So much that I'll dance with you in public and enjoy it."

She settled back against the pillows. "I think you're full of it, but I appreciate the effort. Just text me when you're done so I can meet you."

"Will do." He went to the closet and pulled out his black, fur-lined overcoat. "It's supposed to snow a little, so if you go out, remember your gloves." He winked at her, a reminder of the first time they kissed at the skating rink when they both forgot their gloves.

"Yeah, yeah, go!" She waved him off. He blew her a kiss and left her alone in the room.

After a few minutes, when she was sure he had gone, she crept out of the bed and opened her suitcase. She glanced back at the door and took a deep breath. It took a bit of digging under the clothes, but between a bundle of socks and a few bras, she found what she was looking for. Then, into the bathroom she went, grasping the box like it was standing between her life and her death. Maybe it was, she realized. She shut the door, although she wasn't sure why, since there was no one else in the room. Still, it was a private moment, and that afforded her the most privacy possible.

Two minutes later, she walked back into the bedroom, naked and vulnerable. She looked around absently, trying to collect her thoughts. Then, her gaze landed on the flowers. No one had ever bought her flowers before. She had been overjoyed, like a teenager. She picked up the note he'd included and reread it, committing the words to memory.

Mi Amor,

I always endeavor to be original, so I realize it's ironic that I'm sending you red roses. But I would be a terrible excuse for an attorney if I didn't research the issue first, and I learned that white roses symbolize young love. I loved you in high school, and I'm so lucky to have found that love again. Te quiero con toda mi corazón.

Yours,

Rafael

She ran a hand over her stomach. It was still the same size and shape as it always had been, but to her, it felt different. Not necessarily bad; just different. She was reserving judgment for now. The only thing she could really think about was how to kill a few hours until she could find out whether her world was about to crumble.

Rafael hadn't been totally honest with Lauren. He did go to lunch with his Harvard friends, but that had only taken an hour. He had told her that he planned to visit with a couple of professors who were, remarkably, still teaching all these years later. Instead, he was on the hunt for something in the SoWa Arts District. He wasn't even certain what exactly it was that he was looking for, but he knew he'd find it there.

A half-dozen jewelry stores lined the streets near Harrison Avenue, and he couldn't imagine not being inspired by something there. And, of course, as a single man, sales associates were more than eager to assist him. He said the same thing every time—that he wanted to buy a small present for his girlfriend of half a year, and he didn't want it to be a ring. That seemed to disappoint half of them, at which point he knew he was in the wrong store.

It took far longer than he thought it would; time was running very short by the time he entered Black & Burst Gallery. As soon as he entered, he got a distinctly different vibe from the other stores. All the other shops were, somehow or another, cold. The problem with every arts district, in his opinion, was that all the stores wanted to be...well, artsy. It seemed like they were all in some unfinished warehouse space, or had exposed brick, or were so white it was like walking into a hospital room. But this store was quite remarkable in that it was simple but not minimalist. Splashes of pink from the overhead track lighting dotted soft yellow walls and two couches faced each other on either side of a large, reclaimed wood coffee table. The case of jewelry was on one side of the store, while a few racks of women's clothing were on the other. Two curtains hung on rods at the back, covering what he assumed were dressing rooms.

The art on the walls was what really caught his eye, though. It wasn't at all abstract like so many other galleries. These were black and white photographs of various places in Boston. He walked along that wall, scrutinizing each one: Faneuil Hall, Fenway Park, the Harbor, Copley Square, and, of course, Boston Common. They were simple photos, but for the fact that each of them had a random burst of color. Sometimes blue, sometimes yellow, sometimes green. He thought how odd it was that no one seemed to notice the colors in everyday life, even as they admired them in art.

Suddenly, from behind one of the curtains appeared a striking blonde woman, probably no older than Marissa, carrying a cardboard box. Her hair fell loosely around her shoulders and she wore clothes that almost surely came from the store's eclectic collection. She flashed him a bright smile. "Hi! What brings you in on such a cold, dreary day?"

"Hi," he said. "I'm looking for something for my girlfriend." It still felt strange to call her that, as if they were too old for those titles.

She set the box down onto the counter. "Well, then you're in luck," she said. "Half my clients are men looking for gifts for their girlfriends, and I pride myself on being able to find the perfect thing in three tries or less."

"You're awfully confident," he said. "I warn you, I'm picky."

She extended her hand. "It's not confidence, it's reality. I'm Tara."

"Rafael," he replied, returning the gesture. She had the handshake of an attorney, firm and fierce. "Beautiful artwork, by the way."

"Oh, thank you," she said. "It's just a hobby, but sometimes I think we're best at what we don't do for a living."

"You took them?"

"I did," she said. "Everything else in the store is designed by other artists I've cultivated, but the photography is all me."

"It's great. If I knew what kind of art she liked, I'd already have my answer."

She pulled her long hair into a ponytail. "Art is so personal. And not just what you hang on the walls. Clothes, jewelry, home decor, it's all about who you are and what you want to say to the world about who you are."

"And what do I want to say about who I am?" he asked, amused.

She looked him up and down, from his gelled hair, to what she could see of his Harvard sweatshirt under his coat, to his slim-cut jeans and wing-tip boots. "Appearances are important to you, clearly," she said, as she stepped behind the jewelry case, "and you want people to see you a certain way. Except for her. You want her to see the sweatshirt, not the suit and tie."

He raised his eyebrows. "I'm not even wearing a suit and—"

She tilted her head. "You gonna tell me you don't wear one every day? There's a Harvard hoodie under that coat, and between that and your attitude, I'm guessing you're a lawyer, the kind that has to look the part. So that's what most people see every day: Rafael, the confident, smooth-talking lawyer in a suit and tie."

"Well, I—"

"Despite that, you came into this store asking for help picking something out for your girlfriend because you want to get it exactly right," she continued. "You want her to know that it came from your heart. That, to me, says that you care about her knowing you, not the lawyer you play on television."

Although he'd only been talking to her for a few minutes, Rafael knew he was going to end up buying something from Tara based solely on the fact that she reminded him of…well, him. "Okay," he said, slightly stunned. "Three guesses it is."

She smirked. "Never doubt me again."

"Well," he said, "I can tell you that she likes jewelry. She has an entire chest of it."

She crossed her arms. "Helpful. What are the three words you'd use to describe her? Don't think too—"

"Vibrant, forgiving, survivor." They were the words that immediately came to mind whenever he was asked to describe Lauren.

"Wow," Tara said. "Usually when I ask that question, I hear words like beautiful, kind, smart, and funny. You're not nearly so generic."

"She's not generic," he said, gazing absently at the jewelry case.

Tara followed his gaze. "Have you ever bought jewelry for a woman?"

He blushed. "Is it that obvious? The only women I've ever bought gifts for are my mother, my grandmother, my best friend, and my assistant. And I've always needed help with those, too. I can shop for myself, but…"

"It's common." She scanned the case, walking back and forth, her bright blue eyes focused intently on the glass. "Vibrant, forgiving, survivor…" she repeated, before pressing two fingers against her lips in thought.

"Do you need me to give you another—" Before he could finish, her eyes lit up and she gasped. "I'll take that as a no."

"I'll be right back!" She took off and slipped behind one of the curtains again.

"I'll be here," he said. While she was gone, he continued to survey the photography. There were a couple of the street the shop was on, the State House, the art museum—but the last one caught his eye. He couldn't believe what a strange coincidence it was—or maybe it was just fate—but there on the wall was a photo of a familiar building, colonnades standing tall against the white limestone and panes of glass. The crimson of the banners that hung as each school term began popped against the otherwise colorless picture.

"Okay," Tara said as she returned to the floor, "I think I'm going to outdo myself this time."

He met her at the front desk. "You seem pretty sure of that."

She grinned confidently. "Oh, I am," she replied. "In fact…are you a betting man?"

He returned her grin. "Lucky for you."

"Excellent. How about this: if I didn't get it right, I'll throw in one of the photographs on the house. If I win, you buy one. How about it?"

"Who gets to pick which one?"

"No matter what, you get to pick," she replied. "I feel like I already know which one you're going for anyway." She glanced over at the photo of the Langdell building at Harvard Law School.

"Deal. Let's see it."

When she lifted the lid of the box she was holding, Rafael immediately knew two things: first, that Tara wasn't exaggerating when she said she had a knack for picking out gifts, and second, that the five-hundred dollars he was about to drop on that photograph would be money well spent.

She always loved the smell of books.

It was such a silly, simple pleasure, something she had never told anyone before. But standing inside the largest law library in the world, Lauren suddenly had the urge to sit and read about estates and trusts again just to inhale the scent of worn pages. Even with the advent of the internet and Lexis, it was comforting to know that books still had a place in legal education.

In her wildest dreams, she never thought she would get to see Harvard Law School, much less go inside its library. She couldn't imagine what it must have been like for Rafael to get to sit here every day. As she walked up and down the main aisle between the shelves, she remembered there were books here that were centuries old. She wondered if anyone here realized how lucky they were to be somewhere that had that kind of history within its walls. The chandeliers overhead glowed brightly, suggesting a permanent daylight, while she stepped between two bookcases.

As she scanned the titles on the shelves, she had to laugh—she had unknowingly wandered into the criminal law section. A fleeting thought of Rafael passed through her mind, of when he was in school, possibly standing in this exact spot. Maybe this had been where he was when he decided to go into criminal law. But for that decision, she might not be standing where he'd stood. She might not have what they did–including the news she had to break that would undoubtedly end it.

"Doing a little research?" whispered a familiar voice from behind her. Oddly, she didn't even startle. Maybe she was all startled out for a lifetime. Or maybe she was so aware of her feelings for him that her brain instinctively knew when he was nearby. "That's gonna be a really late final exam."

She turned around to see him grinning and, despite her anxiety, returned the smile. "Excuse me, but isn't it inappropriate for a professor to hit on a student?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me, but I'm not a professor."

She shrugged. "Too bad," she said as she continued to browse the shelves. "I'm kind of into older academics."

He snorted and put his arms around her, pulling her toward him. "You'll pay for that later," he said against her neck. "You didn't have to come all the way up here, though. I could have met you back at the hotel."

"Well, I guess I figured since you were already on campus, I might as well get to see it too."

He suppressed a smile. Little did she know that when he'd texted her that he was done visiting his professors, he'd actually been in South Boston. He just hadn't thought that she would want to come all the way out to Cambridge. So he had to haul ass to make it back to the campus before she had to wait around too long.

It did not, however, surprise him when she suggested meeting at the library. Most of the nights he spent at her apartment, he would arrive to find her asleep on the couch with a book—a real one, not on an e-reader. It was one of the things he loved most about her. "Do you want me to show you around?" he asked. "We've still got daylight left."

She smiled. "You want to play tour guide?"

"Play?" He took her hand. "Try again."

She felt her insides tighten, afraid that every touch would be the last. But she tried to shove those feelings down and act as normal as she could. "Wait, you were a tour guide?"

"Well, you know how I like to run my mouth."

She shoved playfully against him as they exited the building into the cold April air. "Seriously, what made you want to do that?"

"My first couple years in school, I did almost nothing but study." They turned right and headed toward the center of campus. "So by the time I was a junior, I figured it would at least force me out of the library for a while."

"I remember how hard you studied." She let go of his hand and reached into her bag. She pulled out a crocheted hat and put it on, tucking her hair into it. Despite her best efforts, pieces of it still fell out from the bottom. "The only extracurricular I remember you doing was drama club."

"I needed it for college applications," he said. "You'd think it'd have been the debate society, but I guess even then I knew I'd spend my life arguing, so I didn't need to do it for fun."

"Hey," she said, "speaking of that—when did you decide you wanted to be a prosecutor?"

"It's been, like, a decade since anyone's asked me that," he replied. "I think it must have been sometime in my second year. It wasn't necessarily that I wanted to be a prosecutor. It was more that I realized I hated every kind of law that actually paid well. So I figured if I was going to be destitute, I might as well do something decent with my life."

She laughed. "Wow."

"Surprised?"

"Yes," she replied, "but not for the reason you probably think." He glanced at her, eyes bright and curious. "Well, it's just a really honest answer."

"You expected a lie?"

She gave him a playful smile. "I mean, you are a politician now." He pinched her side through her ivory peacoat. She squeaked and punched him lightly in the arm. "No, really, it's not that I expected you to lie. It's just that I think most people tell themselves that they always wanted to do whatever it is they do. You're not just honest with me; you're honest with yourself."

He didn't really know what to say to that. So, instead, he decided to do what he said he would and started telling her about each building they passed. He pointed out Austin Hall, where he'd argued a moot court case and won an award that he didn't even know he'd been up for; Paine music hall, where he had continued choir his freshman year, before he got too busy with classes; the science center, where he nearly failed chemistry—he never did quite get the hang of balancing equations, he told her. They crossed the plaza where students milled around, grabbing dinner from food trucks before heading back to their dorms to study. Before she knew it, they were standing in the middle of the famous Harvard Yard.

"This is where I spent most of my time when I wasn't in class or at the library," he said. As they walked across the grass, he told her about the flag football games he would watch from afar, how he sometimes wished he was athletically inclined. Sometimes, he said, he would take his lunch out to the chairs that were set up in the grass and just read a book for fun while he ate. Finally, they passed through a giant wrought-iron gate, onto the sidewalk outside the campus boundary. "There was this one maple tree that I liked. It wasn't exceptionally big or anything, but it was out of the way and quiet. I remember studying for my first law school exam there. Funny thing is…"

She squinted at him. "What?"

He smiled sadly. "It's just that I don't know if I could even find that tree now."

"Why not?" They crossed the street into a small park. It was quiet here, away from the clusters of students on the campus grounds.

"I guess," he said, "time takes a toll. Sometimes I think of my mind as a series of filing cabinets, and when one of them gets full, I have to take some of the files out and shred them so that I have room for more important things."

She squeezed his hand. "You remembered me after all those years."

He leaned over and kissed her just behind her ear, where her hair fell from her hat. "Well, they say you never forget your first love." They found a bench and sat down to take a breather after the long walk. She had been so enchanted by the journal through Rafael's past that she had almost forgotten about the present. But sitting in that park with silence surrounding them, the weight of the secret she carried fell upon her like an anvil. It was only when he spoke that she realized she had been holding her breath. "Lauren? Did you hear me?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

He put an arm around her shoulder. "I asked if there was anything you wanted to see before we head back to the hotel. Where'd you go just now?"

She looked at him for a long moment and bit her bottom lip. His eyes were so soft and kind, full of all the love she had ever wanted from a man. And so she kissed him softly, a gloved hand caressing his cheek, trying to make him understand what was in her mind without having to speak the words.

He kissed her back and thought how remarkable it was that he had a life that he never thought possible when he first set foot on this campus. Back then, he was just a poor kid from the Bronx who wanted to escape his abusive home and the classmates who bullied him. And now, he had a life, one for which he was grateful, despite its pressures. He had a woman—the woman—he loved, who inexplicably loved him back. He not only enjoyed but excelled at the career he'd spent his life working toward. He had friends he cared for and a relationship with his mother that was stronger than it ever had been. He felt like he had somehow made a diamond out of coal.

Eventually, she pulled away. "I love you."

He felt like he was coming out of a dream. "I love you too," he said.

There was no point putting it off any longer. After taking a deep breath, she asked him, "Do you remember when I asked if you thought about having kids?"

"I do," he said. "That was our second date, right?"

She nodded. "Well, I just realized that you didn't ask if I thought about it."

"I assumed you wanted them, given that you asked me if I did," he said. "Was that an incorrect assumption?"

"It was. I didn't. Want them, I mean." She fell silent.

"Lauren? What's wrong?" He gave her that stupid half-smile, the one that made him look like the teenager she'd met all those years ago. Back then, if you got pregnant, you had no way of knowing if the guy would stick around to help raise the kid. She realized suddenly that she still had that same fear, even as a grown woman. In the distance, she could see a cemetery, and wondered if it would be warmer toward the center of the Earth. Maybe she just wouldn't be able to feel anything. She didn't know which one she'd prefer.

"You were wrong."

"So do you want kids?"

"I didn't, no. When I asked you, it was the furthest thing from my mind."

"What are you saying to me, Lauren?" he asked. "It's kind of soon to be thinking about them anyway, isn't it?"

She wondered if he was being deliberately obtuse, but she couldn't bring herself to say it in a way that would make it clear. She leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees. "It was," she finally said, "but we'll have to get past that idea."

"Have to get past—" He stopped, the realization a gut punch. She didn't say anything, but she didn't have to. The tears she'd been holding back finally fell from her eyes to the ground, giving him all the information he needed. He took the deepest breath of his life and let out an extended sigh. "Okay," he said. "Okay, first question: how?"

"I think that's pretty self-explanatory," she said with a quiet, sad laugh.

"No, I mean, we've been careful. You're on the pill. We use condoms. How?"

"We weren't always careful," she said.

He sat and thought for a moment, and then it dawned on him. "The first night. The night you told me about—"

She nodded sadly. "I got Plan B the next day, but you know it's not always effective, and"—she took a moment to compose herself—"I only started taking the pill regularly after that. I hadn't exactly needed it before we..."

"Dios Mio," he whispered, trying to absorb all this. It wasn't what he'd expected to hear, especially not while sitting in a park in the middle of Cambridge. Then again, was any man ever really prepared to hear that he was going to be a father? But since he didn't know how to process the emotions, he veered toward pragmatism. "All right. Well, we have options."

Her eyebrows drew together. "Options?"

"I mean…you don't have to do this."

Her eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about?"

He shifted on the bench, turning his body toward hers. "Does your health insurance cover abortion?"

She stood up and walked a few paces away. Of course she knew she had that option, but it wasn't something she'd had the time to consider. She had been more focused on telling him the news. She'd been afraid that he would leave her, almost expected it. But somehow, she hadn't expected him to suggest she terminate the pregnancy. Something inside her broke. "I should have known," she whispered.

"Known what?"

"It's inconvenient," she snapped.

It took him a moment, but when he realized what she was thinking, he all but leaped off the bench. "Lauren," he said, his voice firm, "this has nothing to do with the campaign."

She whipped around, hot with anger and pain. "How could it not?" she asked. "Of course this will affect the campaign! Your girlfriend, who is a former hooker and recovering drug addict, is knocked up. How's that going to go over with the voters?"

His mouth fell open in disbelief and horror. "Do you think that's what I think of you?" She didn't answer, instead looking at him like she didn't recognize him. "All this time," he continued, "and you still think I look at you as what you did instead of who you are?"

She wiped away tears, thankful that she hadn't worn any makeup that day. "How could you not still see that? I still—I still see myself that way sometimes."

"From what I know of these things," he said gently as he approached her, "you probably always will in some small way." He extended his hand and, when she took it, sat back down and pulled her next to him. "But that's not what I see when I look at you."

"What do you see, then?" He smiled at her, his own eyes misting with tears as he remembered the words that he had used to describe her to Tara. Then, he pulled out a small, rectangular box he'd hidden in the inside pocket of his coat. Lauren stared at it, unsure of how to react. It was too big to be a ring, thank God. But she knew it was jewelry. "Raf, what is—"

He handed the box to her. "Open it," he said. "I was going to give it to you when we got back to New York, but I think now is a better time."

Gingerly, she turned it over in her hands. The packaging was nondescript, plain black. Slowly, she lifted the lid and gasped when she looked inside. It was a stunning rose-gold phoenix on a long, delicate gold chain. The bird's wings were spread as if it were about to take off, its head extending upward.

She took the necklace from its box, then stared at him. "When did you—how—"

He looped the chain around her neck and secured the clasp. Then, he took her chin gently in his hand and turned her face toward his. "You asked what I see when I look at you. This"—he pointed to the necklace—"is what I see: someone vibrant, forgiving, and so strong that she went through hell for years but still managed to let herself love me."

She was quiet for a moment, trying to process all of this. Then, she whispered, "I'm scared."

"I am too, I assure you." He wasn't just saying that to comfort her, either. He would love and support her no matter what, but he was petrified.

"What do you want, Rafael?"

"It's not my decision—"

"Don't think about me for right now," she said. "What do you want?"

He thought he would need to take time to work through these feelings. Like a closing argument, he believed he would need to process each one and then logic his way to a conclusion. He never imagined he would be in this position, never really imagined having children at all. But then he thought about how he'd felt just a few minutes earlier—that he had never imagined having the life he had. Maybe this was just another part of that. Then he heard the words leave his lips before he could think anymore.

"I want to be a father."

"So you're not—you're not leaving, then?" Her voice was as shaky as her hands.

"Leaving?" he repeated, confused. "Why would I leave?"

"Because this isn't something either of us planned or even wanted," she said. "I thought—I thought that's why you were suggesting abortion. That you'd leave if I didn't—"

He locked his eyes onto hers. "I would never force you into that choice," he replied. "I just went into lawyer mode. I wanted to think through the options. And I didn't want you to think you didn't have that one."

She unconsciously put a hand on her stomach, and he put one over hers. "Are you sure, Rafael?" she asked.

He swallowed hard, a lump forming in his throat. "If you asked me that half an hour ago, I would have said I didn't know. You know my family history." He looked at their hands, joined over the part of her that held them both. "But, now that it's in front of me, I can't think of anything I want more."

"But the campaign," she said, her heart racing. "Eli is going to—"

"I don't care about the campaign. I don't care about the voters. And I certainly don't care about how Eli is going to react. I only care about this"—he gestured toward her abdomen—"and us, right now, right here."

"But, I—"

He gave her an exasperated smile. "Lauren Rose Sullivan, will you listen to me? You are the love of my life. I am not going to leave unless you ask me to, and even if you did, I'd argue until I couldn't speak anymore."

It wasn't as if she didn't know that he loved her. He told her at least twice a day, as if he was trying to make up for lost time. He showed her in every way imaginable: from rubbing her head when she got migraines, to bringing home an extra brownie from the bakery he passed every day on his way home from work, to the necklace that she clutched with her free hand. But hearing him say those words—that she was "the love of his life"—was a turning point. She finally trusted that he was all in, that she no longer had to worry about losing him.

"So," she said, her voice breaking, "we're doing this? We're—"

"Having a baby," he finished, as they both burst into tears. They knew it wouldn't be easy. They knew their lives would change in a thousand ways, especially in light of the campaign. They knew that Eli would probably have a stroke when he found out. But for the moment, none of that was important, or even on their minds. All that mattered to Rafael was joyfully kissing his child's mother over and over, and all that mattered to Lauren was the sound of the laughter they shared in between.