By six a.m., the sun is just starting to drag itself over the ridge, and I find Roxie exactly where I suspect she’ll be, in the nursery.
She stands by the dresser, rearranging neatly folded onesies she’s already arranged by color, then by size, then by fabric softness, her own system that terrifies me a little.
“Sweetheart,” I murmur from the doorway, leaning against the frame as I watch her. “If you reorganize those drawers any more, the babies are going to end up filing a complaint.”
“I had to reorganize them.” She doesn’t even look up. “They were a mess, and we’ve only got eight weeks left. At most. Everything needs to be perfect.”
“It was already perfect.”
“No, it wasn’t. Who puts the 0–3-month pajamas with the newborn pajamas? That’s chaos.”
I bite my lip to keep from smiling. “I think you’re nesting.”
“I am not nesting,” she says firmly, then picks up a tiny onesie with bear ears on the chest and melts a little. “Okay. Maybe I am. A little.”
I walk up behind her, sliding my arms around her waist and resting my chin on her shoulder. She sighs and leans back into me, soft and warm, thirty-two weeks pregnant.
“You’ve cleaned out every closet, labeled everything in the pantry, color-coded the spice rack, and reorganized the freezer by type of cuisine and calorie count,” I murmur into her hair. “It’s extremely impressive. Terrifying, but impressive.”
She lets out a quiet burst of laughter. “I didn’t realize it was that bad.”
“It’s not bad, but you also need to rest at some point.”
“I will,” she counters immediately. “At some point. Just not right now.”
For a moment it’s just the two of us in the quiet morning, the sunrise washing the nursery floors in warm gold. There are no sounds of Dillon gaming until midnight and no Chance hammering something out on the deck. I don’t have to worry about ticking something off the endless lists taped around the house like we’re preparing for a tactical operation.
It’s just the two of us. My miracle.
I breathe in the sweet scent of her shampoo, taking in the moment before I let her go. “Come on. Let’s go make breakfast before you start reorganizing the diapers by absorption ratings.”
Her eyes widen like I’ve just given her a fantastic idea, and I groan, shaking my head as I take her hand. “Nope. We’re going. Now.”
She sighs but heads downstairs with me. We take it slow, since she insists she’s “not waddling”, even though she is. Just slightly.
To no one’s surprise, our fridge is already packed with enough frozen meals to feed the entire county, and our house is baby proofed to the extreme. And yet her gaze darts around the kitchen as if there has to be something left to do.
“What are you feeling like?” I ask as I crack eggs, needing to distract her before she starts rearranging cookbooks by size. “French toast? Omelets? Pancakes?”
“Fruit,” she says. “And toast. Maybe some bacon.”
“Done.”
By the time I have breakfast plated, Dillon stumbles into the kitchen in nothing but sweatpants and a scowl that says mornings are a personal attack on his senses.
“Why is it already past six?” he grumbles, dropping into a chair.
“Because that’s when the sun rises,” Roxie says sweetly.
“Well, tell it to stop.”
“Good morning to you, too,” Chance says as he comes in barefoot, his hair a sweat-damp disaster and his face red enough to tell me he’s already been in the gym. He also looks way too pleased with himself for this hour as he leans down, kisses Roxie’s cheek, and steals a piece of her bacon.
She swats him. “That one had my name on it.”
“I didn’t see a label.”
“Don’t tempt her,” I mutter. “She’ll label every food item in this house and then color-code them.”
