“Yeah, yeah, let go,” he muttered, though he couldn’t hide the smile on his lips. I let my hands slip away, stepping back to grab my mug and lean against the counter, watching him work.
The kitchen… hell every moment with him, felt like a place outside of time—just Mylo and me, our little routines, our quiet moments. The bacon sizzling, the smell of coffee, Mylo humming some half-forgotten tune as he moved around. This was it, wasn’t it? The life I’d always wanted but never thought I’d have.
And almost fucked up.
Mylo paused for a moment, placing a hand on his lower back, wincing slightly. I frowned, setting my mug down. “Back still bothering you?” I asked, my voice laced with concern.
He looked over his shoulder, giving me a small smile. “Yeah, just a little. I swear this kid’s using my spine as a punching bag,” he said, trying to make light of it, but I could see the exhaustion in his eyes.
I stepped forward, resting a hand gently on his back, rubbing slow circles. “You know you don’t have to do all this, right? You could take it easy for once.”
He rolled his eyes, though there was a softness there. “I know. But I want to. Besides, I like making breakfast for you. It makes me feel... normal.” He shrugged, his hand moving to rest on his belly, a tender look crossing his face. “And I think the little one likes it too. He’s been pretty active this morning.”
I smiled, leaning down to press a kiss to his shoulder. “Well, I think you’re both amazing. But promise me you’ll rest later, okay?”
He nodded, turning back to the stove. “Yeah, yeah. Now go sit down, breakfast is almost ready.”
I moved to the small table in the corner of the room, setting my mug down as I pulled out a chair. He joined me a moment later, setting down a plate stacked with pancakes, bacon, and scrambled eggs. He sat across from me, his eyes meeting mine, and for a moment, we just looked at each other—no words needed, no explanations.
“Thanks for this,” I said, my voice softer now.
He shrugged, but I could see the emotion in his eyes. “Anytime, babe.”
And I knew he meant it—not just breakfast, but everything. This life we were building, this love we were nurturing. It wasn’t always perfect, but it was ours, and that was enough for me.
As we ate, Mylo winced again, his hand going to his belly. I reached across the table, covering his hand with mine. “You okay?”
He nodded, giving me a small smile. “Yeah. Just a kick. A strong one.” He laughed, shaking his head. “I swear, this kid’s gonna be a linebacker or something.”
I chuckled, squeezing his hand gently. “Well, he’s got your determination, that’s for sure.”
He smiled, his eyes softening as he looked at me. “And your stubbornness.”
“Hey, I take that as a compliment,” I said, grinning.
“You would,” he replied, rolling his eyes, but there was no hiding the affection in his gaze.
The rest of breakfast passed in a comfortable silence, the kind that only came from knowing someone inside and out, from loving them through every high and low. And as I watched him, his hand resting on his belly, a soft smile on his lips…I couldn’t imagine a better moment… until the next one with him
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
MYLO
The kitchenat the resort was buzzing with activity, and I was smack dab in the middle of it, wielding a spatula like it was a weapon. The smell of roasted veggies and caramelized onions filled the air, blending with the sweeter scent of Sarah’s dessert station. We were gearing up for the huge party later today—one of those high-profile events where everything had to be perfect.
And here I was, almost full term by bear shifter standards—standing in the middle of it all. Five months. I still couldn’t believe it. Bear shifter pregnancies only lasted five months. It was kind of a blessing, but it also felt like I was on the express lane to parenthood. Holden had tried—and failed spectacularly—to convince me to stop working. He’d brought it up about a thousand times, but it only took Hope, Sarah, and his mom giving himthatlook to shut him down. I was pregnant, not sick, and there was no way I was sitting around all day doing nothing while everyone else pulled the weight.
“Mylo, don’t forget to taste the marinade before you add the extra garlic,” Sarah called from across the kitchen, her eyes flicking between the mixer and the tray of cupcakes she was decorating. She wore that hyper-focused look, the one that said her brain was juggling a dozen things at once.
“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” I replied, shifting my weight from one swollen foot to the other. I’d learned the hard way—if Sarah said to taste the marinade first, you damn well tasted it first. I glanced at her and caught the smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.
“You know, I think my ankles are officially gone,” I said, gesturing to my feet. “Like, I had them a couple of months ago. Now? Just balloons.”
Sarah chuckled, shaking her head. “It’s all part of the process. You’re doing great, Mylo.”
She smiled at me, one of those comforting, warm smiles that had made her such a good friend from the start.
Honestly, I’d lucked out with the pregnancy so far. It had been surprisingly easy—except for the swollen feet, the constant backache, and... well, this weird thing where I couldn’t stand the smell of cinnamon. Cinnamon, of all things. It used to be one of my favorite spices, but now it made me gag. Sarah had found it hilarious the first time I recoiled from a fresh cinnamon bun like it was radioactive.
