Page 23
God, do I.
Late-night drives with music blasting and our feet on the dash. Sitting on his kitchen counter, stealing spoonfuls of peanut butter and making plans we never said out loud because they felt too big to name. The way he used to look at me—like I wasn’t just a girl he liked, but a future he wanted.
It was intense. It was simple. It was ours.
“I remember,” I whisper, voice catching on the weight of it.
He nods once, like he knew I would. “It was good, Mya. You know it was. We were good together. Even when we were too young to know what the hell we were doing… it still made sense. You made sense.”
I don’t breathe.
Can’t.
Because yes, we were good. We were golden. But we never got our shot—not really. We were always a little too late, or a little too unsure, or too wrapped up in everyone else’s expectations.
But now? Now I’m pregnant. Now I’m messy. Now I’m someone else’s almost, someone’s leftover. And yet… here he is.
“Feels like a second chance,” he says, reading my mind like it’s a book he’s already memorized. “Like life’s throwing us a curveball and giving us another swing.”
A second chance.
My throat burns.
Because part of me wants that. Wants him. Wants the feeling I get when I’m around him—that I’m seen, safe, chosen. But another part of me is terrified. Because I’ve come to rely on him so fast, and that kind of trust is a dangerous thing. Especially when I’m not just me anymore.
“You say you want it all,” I murmur, “but I’m a package deal now, Kingston. There’s no version of this where it’s just you and me.”
“I know,” he says without hesitation. “And I still want it. I want them too.” He glances down at my stomach, and something shifts in his expression—something achingly tender. “I want everything that comes with loving you, Mya. Even the hard parts.”
My heart stutters. My soul flinches.
Because he says it so easily. Like it’s not a question. Like it’s not complicated. Like I’m not carrying someone else’s children and trying to pick up the shattered remains of the life I thought I’d have.
Fletch couldn’t handle it. Couldn’t look at me without flinching. Couldn’t stand in the fire long enough to even try.
But Kingston?
He’s not flinching.
He’s walking straight through it.
And maybe… maybe that’s what love looks like after all.
The room tilts.
Or maybe it’s me.
Because it shouldn’t be this simple. It shouldn’t be this easy for him to say. To mean. Especially when the last man in my life ran so fast in the other direction, he left skid marks on my heart.
I can’t help it. I whisper, “You’re not scared?”
He shakes his head. “Not of this.”
“You should be.”
“Maybe,” he says. “But I’m not. Because it’s not about them. Not the media. Not your ex. Not the people who whisper behind their hands.” He pauses, eyes on mine like he’s memorizing me in real-time. “It’s about us. This. You. Me. Them.” He nods to my belly like he’s already claimed them, like they’re his too. “That’s the only headline I give a damn about.”
“But the media—”
