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And on second down, it happens.

Zaire Daniels breaks loose, smashes through their line and gets a hand on the quarterback. He flails. The pass goes wild. And Nolan Westbrook—my sweet, beautiful, ball-hawking safety—dives for it.

Interception.

Game.

Set.

Giants.

The scoreboard reads 27–20. And the stadium erupts into madness.

On the field, Kingston rips off his helmet, eyes scanning the stands, and finds me in a sea of fans. He points. Just once.

And that’s it. I’m gone. Wrecked. Crying like a hormonal wreck with my hands pressed to my belly.

“You okay?” Jasmine asks, her eyes glossy too.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “They’re going to be so proud of him one day.”

And I know it’s true.

Because Kingston just did what he always does—lead. Fight. Win.

And this Thanksgiving? I’ve never had more to be thankful for.

Chapter Fourteen

MYA

The second I open the penthouse door and see Reese’s face, I forget how tired I am. She screams before I can say anything, and then we’re hugging and laughing and swaying like two drunk girls in a rom-com montage.

“You’re glowing,” she accuses, yanking back to inspect me, her palms still clamped to my shoulders. “It’s not even fair. You’re supposed to look exhausted.”

“I am exhausted,” I groan, then grin. “I just have a good concealer and a boyfriend who feeds me carbs.”

Reese smirks. “God, it’s still so weird seeing you with Kingston freaking Maddox. Like, my brain short-circuits every time.”

Before I can answer, another voice breaks through.

“Is this how you greet everyone now, or am I just special?”

I turn, and there he is.

Thorin Decker. All six feet of him, framed in the doorway like a secret I forgot I missed. His dark hair’s pulled into a messy man bun, green eyes bright beneath the scar slashing through his left eyebrow like a comma in the story of who he used to be. He’s broader than I remember. Rougher. Still too good-looking for anyone’s sanity.

My throat tightens. “You made it.”

He grins. “You think I’d skip seeing your stomach try to colonize your entire body?”

I laugh, choking on the emotion that sneaks up like a sucker punch. “You haven’t seen me in three months and that’s your opener?”

He shrugs, crossing the threshold with a duffel slung over his shoulder. “What can I say? I’ve missed you, Squish.”

The nickname melts me, and I smack his chest just hard enough to make a sound. He laughs, then pulls me in for a proper hug, one hand cradling the back of my head like he used to when I cried in parking lots and kitchens and stages we weren’t ready for.

When we finally break apart, Thorin’s eyes dip to my bump.