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“I had one job,” I groan. “Just one.”

He strolls over and disarms the alarm with the flick of a button like he does this sort of thing all the time—puts out fires, fixes messes, makes my brain melt.

“It’s not ruined.” He tears a piece off and pops it in his mouth. “It’s smoky. Adds character.”

I snort. “That’s not character. That’s carcinogenic.”

But then he leans in, kisses my temple like it’s nothing—and everything—and says, “I like when you cook for me. Always have.”

Cue emotional whiplash.

Dinner is edible—barely—but we eat it cross-legged on the floor of his cavernous living room because the dining table feels too formal and I need something grounding. Something that feels real and not like the shiny, glass-and-gold fantasy this penthouse is.

Kingston’s rare night off is quiet. Calm. The kind of evening I crave but never know how to ask for.

Then he says it.

“We should set up a nursery.”

Just like that. Casually, in between bites of pasta and a sip of Pellegrino like he’s talking about rearranging the living room.

My fork clinks against the plate. My pulse flatlines.

A nursery?

“What?” I laugh—but it’s the kind of laugh that sounds hollow. Ha-ha-ha, please tell me you didn’t just say that.

“I mean,” he shrugs, trying for nonchalance, but there’s something serious burning behind his gaze. “There’s space. The third bedroom’s just holding gym equipment and boxes. I could have it cleared out by the weekend.”

The weekend.

He’s already planned the logistics. Probably already Googled color palettes and cribs and safety-rated rocking chairs because of course he has.

I blink. Swallow. Try to hold it together, but I’m a cracked window in a windstorm right now.

“I met with my dad’s lawyer this morning,” I say, voice low, hoping he catches the gravity beneath the sentence.

Kingston’s chewing slows. “About Fletcher?”

I nod. “The termination papers are being filed this week.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just sets his plate down and shifts closer, so close his thigh presses against mine. Warmth. Pressure. Presence.

And I want to lean in. God, I do. But I also want to run.

I wrap my arms around my belly and stare at the floor. “The nursery thing…it just caught me off guard.”

“You rarely get caught off guard,” he murmurs.

“I know.”

There’s a pause. Not heavy, just… pregnant.

Ha. Of course my brain goes there.

“I’m not trying to push you,” he adds softly, “but you and the babies are already here. It’s not about rushing anything. It’s about making space.”

But that’s just it. He’s making space. In his home. In his life. In ways that terrify me because I didn’t ask for this and yet…I can’t bring myself to say no.