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“Unwell is exactly what makes it iconic,” I tease. “Eli deserves a first birthday that lives in Pinterest infamy.”

We talk a little longer—about cake flavors and party playlists and whether or not Thorin can be trusted with a glue gun (he cannot)—until the edges of Reese’s exhaustion start to soften.

When we finally say goodnight, I’m reminded of something she once said on one of her YouTube videos.

“Some people heal by holding on. Others heal by letting go. But most of us? We just figure out how to breathe while we’re breaking.”

So I breathe.

And I let myself break—just a little. Quietly. Alone.

And then I tuck my hand beneath the curve of my belly, whisper to the life inside me,

“You’re already so loved, even when everything feels like it’s unraveling.”

I must drift off for a while—lulled to sleep by the weight of exhaustion and the rhythmic pulse of Kingston’s cologne still lingering on the sheets like a secret I never want to forget. I moved into his bedroom when we decided to give this thing between us—this new thing borne of something from the past—a try.

But the soft click of the front door pulls me back, slow and syrupy, like coming out of a dream I wasn’t ready to leave. I blink up at the ceiling, disoriented for a beat, the shadows stretching long and familiar across the penthouse walls.

Footsteps. Heavy, purposeful. Kingston.

My lips curve without permission. I push myself up, bones creaky from sleeping funny, and pad into the hallway, bare feet brushing the cool floor.

He’s standing in the entryway, mid-motion, one shoe off, the other half-committed. His shoulders are slouched, like the night’s weight is finally easing off him, and his hair’s a little damp at the nape, curling from being wet. My heart stutters.

He looks up, and when his eyes meet mine, he gives me that smile. The one that melts the marrow right out of my bones.

“There’s my girl,” he says, soft and rough and warm all at once. He opens his arms without asking, and I go—like gravity, like instinct.

His body’s solid against mine, arms wrapping around me in a way that makes everything else fade out. My cheek presses to his chest, and the steady thud of his heart grounds me better than any deep-breathing exercise ever could.

“You’re home,” I murmur, burying my nose in the collar of his hoodie.

“Yeah.” He exhales against the top of my head. “Game was brutal.”

I tilt back just enough to look up at him. “But you won?”

He nods, tired pride tugging at his mouth. “Barely. But a win’s a win.”

“You should be sleeping,” I say, tracing the edge of his jaw with my fingertip. He hasn’t shaved in two days and I like the feel of the stubble.

He kisses my temple. “So should you.”

“I wasn’t out long,” I admit. “I spoke to Reese before bed.”

At that, his brow lifts with that slow-building curiosity that always precedes a protective spiral.

“She’s okay,” I add quickly. “Just stressed. The studio’s a mess. Fletch is…” I trail off. Complicated. Imploding. A whole other conversation.

Kingston hums, brushing a strand of hair off my face, but doesn’t press. Instead, he shifts slightly and reaches for something behind him.

“Oh,” he says, like he forgot until right this second, and holds out a small white gift bag with navy tissue paper puffing out of the top like whipped cream. “I saw these and couldn’t help myself.”

I take it, curiosity piqued. The tissue crinkles beneath my fingers as I dig through it and pull out not one but two teeny-tiny onesies.

My throat catches.

They’re navy blue with bold white lettering stretched across the chest—New York Giants. Each one has a miniature football stitched just above the team logo. They’re also soft to the touch.