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“Are you secretly cursing Carter for getting us such a complicated crib?” I asked, making him jump.

“No,” he said with a laugh, setting aside the tools and coming over to kiss the top of my head. “I do wish it came with instructions though. It’s been pretty intuitive so far, but still.”

My brow wrinkled and I went over to the box, lifting it up to check the insides. And sure enough, near the bottom and static clung to the side, were the instructions. I pulled them out and handed them over to Niall.

“How? I checked the box at least five times,” he mumbled, flipping through the pages until he found where he was at.

“I guess the mom magic starts early.” I shrugged, laughing at the normalcy of the moment. “This crib really is amazing though. I hadn’t looked at it that closely, but the changing station is amazing.”

“Mhmm. And there’s storage underneath too.”

“Damn,” I whistled. “Carter continues to be my favorite.”

“Yeah, he’s always been the most practical of the group. A real level-headed dude. Though I think Taylor’s gift was also super practical.”

“Well, yeah, a postpartum kit is great and very thoughtful and I’m sure I’ll be grateful to have all that on hand. But this.” I patted the warm wood of the crib. “This is useful and pretty.”

“Well, that’ll mean no one wins the bet, so that’s for the best.”

“Bet?” I asked, raising an eye brow. Niall set the instructions and sighed.

“Yeah, they like to make betting pools around everything. They have a $20 cap, but because the cap is so low, they end up betting on the most ridiculous things.”

“Like what?”

“Umm.” Niall let his head fall back as he thought. “There were a lot of bids about Kodi and Kean when she first started.”

“Really? Why?”

“They were childhood friends, but when Kodi was hired, Kean realized she didn’t recognize him and it was a whole thing.”

I had more questions about that, but they were best directed at Kodi. So instead, I looped an arm around Niall’s and pulled him out of the room and to the kitchen.

“But I’m almost —”

“I’m hungry and if you’re here, you might as well keep me company.”

“You want my company?” he asked, feet stalling us in the middle of the hallway.

“Yeah, I know, I’m growing emotionally. Come on,” I grumbled, tugging him along and ignoring his small chuckle.

Once in the kitchen, I let him go and went about making breakfast. “If you have any objections to pancakes, keep them to yourself. Consider it punishment for using a drill when I was asleep.”

“More than fair. I was hoping I could get it in one burst of sound and you wouldn’t hear it from the other room.” I glared at him and he stopped rambling. “Do you want help?”

“Sure. Can you grab the griddle on top of the fridge and get that heated up?” Like the golden boy he was, he quickly followed my instructions without qualm. It was kind of weird how quickly we settled into the kitchen together, quietly focused on our own tasks. And while I was used to silence by myself, I wasn’t used to it with someone else. “So what motivated you to build a crib first thing in the morning?”

“Oh.” He sheepishly scratched the back of his head. “I’ve been up for a few hours. Ran a couple laps around the block, brought the rest of the shower stuff in and unpacked it, did the few dishes that were in the sink, and then … I didn’t have anything else to do, so I started the crib.” He let his hand drop and shrugged. “I want to prove you can count on me. And that while our schedules might not always align, there are ways I can make up for that. Like prepping things when you’re asleep.”

I looked over at the sink to confirm the few things I had left in there post impromptu cookies had been cleaned and placed in the drying rack. This man truly was a marvel of anxiety-driven perfection.

“I appreciate the dishes and the crib, but—actually,” I paused to look down his body and ogle the firm muscles. “I appreciate the running too. But I’d like to affirm that doing chores, right now, is unnecessary. If we were living together and you were always gone and never doing housework, I might feel differently. But in this … liminal relationship space we’re in, dishes aren’t necessary.” I looked down at the bowl of pancake mix and wrinkled my nose. “Strike that. If you enjoy the meal and didn’t cook, dishes are necessary.”

“That’s fair.” He chuckled and took the measuring cups I was finished with. “What are some ways I can help you feel more secure in this—what’d you call it? Liminal relationship?”

“It’s the best way I could think to describe it,” I grumbled.

“I didn’t say I hated it. I think the use of the word liminal is a little funny though.”