Page 139 of Knocked Up By the Silver Foxes

Then she’s back at the nursery door, eyes alight.

“Sage green,” she says. “Not too dark. And white trim. Oh—oh—a bookshelf along this wall, built in, so we can start with board books and fill it all the way to the top by the time they’re reading novels.” Her hands sweep through the air, sketching walls, furniture, life. “A rocking chair—facing the window. We’ll read them stories when it rains. I want a mural. Not foxes. Stars. A whole night sky, like the vineyard at night, only with constellations we name ourselves.”

She turns to us, eyes bright. “We can do that, right? Name our own constellations?”

Maddox nods. “As long as mine’s called ‘The Roaring Lion with a Leather Jacket.’”

She giggles. “Killer just gave up decorating. He can name one too.”

Killian’s expression is dark, amused. “I’ve already named it. ‘Her.’ Centered, blazing.”

I don’t speak. I just watch her.

The way her hands hover protectively over her belly. The way her voice lifts when she says we, our, ours. How she doesn’t flinch from any of it—from the future, from us, from the life we’re building tighter around her every day.

And I think—this is what it looks like. Not just motherhood. Not just love. But belonging.

Not one of us knows who the father will be. Not really. And it doesn’t matter. Not in the way that counts. Harper is the center. The fire. The reason the rooms feel warm before the hearth is lit.

She turns to me now, eyes soft, and reaches out, her fingers brushing mine. I take her hand, bring it to my lips.

“This is it,” she whispers. “This is home.”

I press her knuckles to my chest, feel the baby kick—strong, insistent—against my forearm where it rests beneath hers.

“Yes,” I say. “It is.”

HARPER

The sun dips low over the vineyard, spilling honeyed light across endless rows of vines that ripple like silk in the summer breeze. I stand on the wide stone terrace of Asher’s château, barefoot, the warm flagstones beneath my feet still holding the day’s heat. My fingers curl around the stem of a wineglass, the liquid inside untouched—deep crimson, just like the Syrah fermenting in the cellars below—but I don’t miss it. Not when the air is so thick with scent and sound and love that it feels like drinking in light itself.

Below me, the yard is alive with motion. Killian moves slowly through the grass, one hand firmly supporting Gabriel’s wobbling weight as the baby takes unsteady steps, his tiny fingers gripping his father’s thumb. Killian doesn’t rush him. He never does. His voice is low, constant, murmuring words I can’t make out but feel in my ribs like a steady pulse. The man who once commanded boardrooms with a glance now kneels in the dirt to match his son’s pace, dusting off grass stains from little knees with the same care he’d wipe smudges from a crystal decanter. It’s a tenderness that still catches me sometimes, steals my breath—not because I don’t expect it, but because I now realize he was always capable of it. Just never met someone worth uncovering it for.

In the kitchen behind me, the clatter of pans and the soft hiss of olive oil meeting hot iron carry through the open French doors. Asher’s silhouette moves like a dancer between stove and counter, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms dusted with flour and flecks of rosemary. He hums under his breath, something old and tuneless, the way he always does when he’s relaxed. The scent of rendered garlic, seared lamb, and roasted tomatoes drifts out on the evening air, wrapping around us like a promise. He doesn’t need to be told what we want—he already knows. Always has.

And then there’s Maddox.

He’s sprawled in the grass beside Gabriel, one hand propped behind his head like he’s on a beach somewhere tropical instead of a meticulously landscaped garden in northern California. He’s teaching the baby how to “punch” by wiggling his fingers in the air just out of reach, cooing in a low, exaggerated growl. “C’mon, Gabe. Right hook. C’mon, kid. You’re a fighter. You’ve got my blood in you.”

Sophia throws a handful of grapes at him from across the table. “Teach my brother how to throw elbows before he can walk? I can’t take him anywhere with you.”

Maddox grins, catching one of the grapes mid-air and popping it into his mouth. “He’s gonna need reflexes. He’s got three overprotective dads and a mother who sneaks kale into scrambled eggs. He’s under siege.”

Enzo leans back in his chair, arms crossed, laughing. “You’re the siege, Maddox. You’re the wild card.”

“I’m the fun,” he counters, winking. “The necessary chaos.”

Killian gives a low, put-upon sigh as he lifts Gabriel into his arms—small hands immediately reaching to grab at his watch, tugging on the heavy silver links. “If by chaos you mean instructing an infant in amateur boxing, then yes. You’re essential.”

But the corner of his mouth twitches, and he shifts the baby so Gabriel can drum his palms against his chest, a sound like small rain on tin.

I watch them all—the easy rhythm of teasing and touch, the way laughter spills between them like it’s the most natural thing in the world—and I feel the quiet swell of something so full inside me that it burns at the edges of my vision. I didn’t lose my life when New York fell apart. I just didn’t know I was supposed to find this instead: a house that breathes, a table that never stops filling, a love that doesn’t divide itself but multiplies.

The baby kicks—just a small flutter, low and deep, like a secret waking up.

I press a hand to my belly and smile.

Dinner is served on the long outdoor table, draped in ivory linen, candlelight flickering against cut crystal and hand-thrown pottery. Asher brings out platters of lamb braised in red wine and thyme, roasted vegetables glazed in honey and balsamic, a wheel of warm goat cheese crowned with figs. There’s bread still crackling from the oven, and a salad so fresh it tastes like dew. No one speaks for the first few minutes—not because we’re reverent, but because we’re starving, and Asher’s food has always been its own kind of sacrament.