The coffee pot slipped in my hand, scalding liquid splashing across the counter—and onto the sleeve of the man in the crisp white shirt. "Shit! I'm so sorry," I gasped, grabbing a rag. He didn't yell. Just looked up, calm, with these deep green eyes that made my breath catch. "It's okay," he said, smiling faintly. "Happens to the best of us."

I mopped frantically, heart pounding. One mistake could cost me this job. But he insisted on paying for dry cleaning, handed me his card. "In case your manager needs it."

Two weeks later, I stared at the positive test, knees buckling against the bathroom tile. And then the call came: "You're going to pay us back, Emily. Every dollar. Or you're out on the street."

Now, standing in the rain outside his apartment, clutching that stupid card, I whisper into the dark: "What if I just knock?"