Every time the baby shifted or kicked, his thumb brushed small circles across the same spot like he was learning the language of movement beneath my skin.
He never said anything about it.
Neither did I.
But I noticed he never once moved his hand away, even when the flight attendant asked him to lift the armrest for landing. Hekept one finger hooked against my stomach like letting go would mean something fragile might break.
We landed at dusk.
Los Angeles stretched beneath us in orange haze and glittering headlights. The moment the plane doors opened, the humid salt air from the Bahamas disappeared, replaced by dry California smog and familiarity that pressed heavier than the heat ever had.
The Beverly Hills mansion looked the same when we pulled into the driveway.
Too white.
Too polished.
Too perfect in a way that felt sterile instead of comforting.
But when we stepped inside, something subtle had shifted. Maybe it was leftover sunlight warming the marble floors. Maybe it was the way Cal dropped his keys into the bowl and immediately grabbed our luggage without being asked.
Maybe it was the way Eli didn’t hesitate before walking in like it was home instead of temporary shelter.
Cal carried every bag upstairs in one trip, refusing help. Eli went straight to his room, already listing unpacking priorities under his breath, Lego set first, cables second, clothes sorted by texture and sleeve length.
I wandered toward the nursery almost without thinking.
It was still half-finished.
Boxes stacked in corners. The crib assembled but missing its mattress. Changing table empty except for a folded instruction manual Cal never threw away. A soft rug still rolled halfway open like it was waiting for permission to belong there.
Cal stood in the doorway that first evening back, sleeves rolled up, eyes scanning the room with an intensity he usually reserved for songwriting sessions.
He leaned his shoulder against the frame, studying the chaos like it was a puzzle he genuinely wanted to solve.
“Neutral colors?” he asked.
I nodded. “Grays. Beiges. Nothing gendered.”
He opened the first box, sheets. Soft gray with tiny white stars.
“These are good,” he said. “But what if we do a soft blue accent? Not baby blue. Slate. For the boy.”
I raised a brow. “Still on that?”
He smirked. “Admit it. The kicks are boy kicks.”
“They’re strong kicks. Could be a girl who’s already tired of your nonsense.”
He laughed, quiet, real,and started unfolding the fitted sheet. We worked side by side. Him stretching the corners, me smoothing the top. Our fingers brushed. He didn’t pull away.
“These curtains,” he said, holding up the linen panels. “Too sheer?”
“Perfect for light but not blinding.”
He climbed onto a chair to hang them, muttering under his breath when he struggled with the rod brackets. I leaned against the dresser, watching him work, realizing this was the first domestic thing I’d ever seen him willingly invest himself in.
He stepped down and studied the room again.
