“Knox does protect me,” I agree, looking at my big Alpha, who is currently wiping chocolate milk off the counter with a dishrag.
“Mets-en!” Knox says.
“And Fallon makes me laugh,” I continue. “And Eli reads me stories.”
Maisie thinks about this, nodding seriously. “Okay. I will teach him to read, too. And to build cribs.”
“Deal,” Fallon says, holding up his hand for a high-five.
Maisie slaps his hand, then rests her head back on my belly. She hums a soft tune, a song she learned at school, and we all just sit there. Listening.
I look around the room at my pack.
At the flower shop, I used to count the tips in the jar. I used to calculate how many hours I had left until I could run again. I used to jump when the phone rang, terrified it was him, or the hospital, or a debt collector.
Now, the phone is sitting on the counter, silent. My life isn’t about hiding anymore. It’s about nesting. It’s about pickles in chocolate milk and cribs built upside down.
It’s about the way Eli is already planning college funds, and the way Fallon is baby-proofing the cabinets, and the way Knox looks at me like I hung the moon.
I’m not just surviving. I’m not a ghost haunting the edges of a town.
I’m home.
“Hey,” Maisie says, lifting her head. “The baby is kicking again.”
“Is he?” Eli asks.
“Yeah. He’s dancing.” Maisie takes my hand and places it over a spot near my ribs. I feel the steadythump-thump-thumpagainst my palm.
It’s the most magical thing I have ever felt.
“I love you,” I whisper to my stomach. “We all love you.”
“We do,” Knox says, coming over to kiss the top of my head. “Even if you do eat weird food.”
“It’s good,” I defend myself, taking another sip of the pickle milk. “You should try it.”
“Not in this lifetime,” Fallon says.
I laugh, and the movement makes the baby kick again. I wince, pressing a hand to my lower back.
“Sore?” Eli asks immediately, his hand going to my back to rub.
“Just stiff,” I say. “I’m going to go lay down for a little while before Maisie goes to school.”
“I’ll walk you,” Eli says, standing up.
“No, stay,” I say. “I want to look at the nursery for a minute.”
I grab my phone and walk slowly down the hall to the spare room. The door is open. The sage green walls are bright in the morning light.
The crib is still a pile of wood in the other room, but in here, we’ve set up the rocking chair Simon gave us. There are shelves lined with tiny, folded onesies. Mobiles of stars and moons hang from the ceiling.
I sink into the rocking chair, putting my feet up.
I look at the empty space where the crib will go. I think about the baby coming into this room. About the baby smelling like Knox and Fallon and Eli.
About the baby being safe, surrounded by a pack that will burn the world down to keep him warm.
