Page 67

Thorin finally looks back at me, grin softening. “You’ve always been an overachiever.”

I roll my eyes and step outside, tugging the blanket tighter around me. “You saying that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Nah,” he says, bumping Kingston lightly with his shoulder. “She’s always been like this. Tough as hell. Even when she was seventeen and thought hot sauce counted as a personality.”

Kingston chuckles, glancing at me like he’s picturing it. “Yeah? Still kind of tracks.”

“I hate both of you,” I mutter, but I’m smiling.

There’s a beat of silence as the wind curls around us, cool and crisp, carrying the faint sound of the city below.

“You’ve got a good setup here,” Thorin says finally, voice quieter now. “Not just the penthouse. The way she looks at you.”

I feel Kingston shift beside me. “I’m the lucky one.”

Thorin nods slowly. “I know.”

He takes a sip of his beer, gaze fixed somewhere in the distance, then adds, “You should know… Mya’s been through enough bullshit to last three lifetimes. But she’s still the most loyal, infuriating, ride-or-die person I’ve ever known. And I’m not just saying that because she once broke a guitar over a guy’s head for calling me a sellout.”

“That guy was a dick,” I mumble.

Kingston laughs under his breath. “Duly noted.”

“She doesn’t need protecting,” Thorin says, angling his head toward him. “But she deserves someone who’d do it anyway.”

Kingston’s voice is steady when he answers. “I would. Every day. With everything I’ve got.”

I blink back the sudden sting in my eyes and press a hand to my bump, just to feel the reassurance of movement. The twins always seem to know when I’m spiraling.

Thorin glances over, green eyes soft. “You’re gonna be a hell of a mom, Squish.”

“You better be practicing your lullaby voice,” I shoot back. “You’re on the hook for at least one Disney duet per kid.”

He smirks. “Only if I get to pick the songs.”

“No Encanto, no Frozen, and absolutely no Moana.”

Thorin groans. “You suck the joy out of life.”

Kingston drapes his arm over my shoulder and kisses the top of my head. “I don’t know. I kinda like this life.”

And standing there—between the guy who’s been my brother through every breakdown and the man who’s becoming home—I realize I do, too.

Even if it still scares the hell out of me.

The guys disappear into the media room with beers and the kind of intense focus usually reserved for Super Bowl plays and playoff-level trash talk. I hear the start-up chime of the PlayStation and someone—probably Fletch—shouting, “I swear to God, if anyone picks Luigi again, I’m flipping this coffee table.”

I grab the leftover tiramisu from the fridge and two spoons like it’s a war offering and motion for Reese to follow me.

“Upstairs?” I whisper.

She nods like I just offered her a ticket to Narnia. “Hell yes. I’ve been pretending I didn’t see Thorin almost crash into the soundbar trying to beat Benji at Mario Kart for fifteen minutes. Get me out of here.”

We sneak into the guest bedroom across from mine—the one with floor-to-ceiling windows and a reading nook so pretty it looks AI-generated—and flop onto the bed like teenagers who snuck out after curfew

“Lock the door,” Reese says, eyeing me. “In case one of them gets the munchies and comes looking for dessert.”

“You mean this?” I lift the container between us like it’s sacred treasure. “You’re welcome.”