He flashes that devilish grin. “Told you—I’m not just a pretty face, baby mama.”
“Don’t call me that. Not yet.”
“You called me Daddy the other night.”
“That was averydifferent context.”
He winks. I groan and try not to smile.
Max takes my hand, threading our fingers together like he’s sealing a vow. I rest my head against his shoulder and close my eyes for a moment. “Do you think the baby will like it here?”
Max squeezes my hand. “They’ve got a rockstar for a dad, a badass librarian for a mom, and enough books to build their own kingdom. If not, we’re in trouble.”
I smile. My heart feels like it’s grown ten sizes in the span of a sentence.
“I love you,” I murmur, just for him.
He holds me tighter, warm and unshakable. “Good. ‘Cause I love you.”
***
Turns out the movers were professionals after all—everything’s set up perfectly. But the nursery? That’s my domain. I’m not letting some random guy do my job. How hard can it be, right?
There’s a rogue screw under the dresser I’ve given up trying to retrieve, a handful of mysterious pegs I swear weren’t in the instructions, and a whole population of Allen wrenches lounging on the floor like they own the place. I’m sitting cross-legged in leggings and Max’s old hoodie, clutching the manual like it’s an ancient scroll. One that holds the secret to a crib sturdy enough for the tiny acrobat currently training for the Olympics inside me.
“Step fifteen,” I announce, squinting at the page. “Attach panel D to bracket F using screws labeled six. Not seven. And definitely not eight, which—surprise—you already used.”
Max looks up from the other side of the almost-crib and raises his hands like I’ve just pulled a gun. “I stand by my choices. Panel D was asking for it.”
I shoot him a look, but it’s hard to hold onto mock-annoyance when he’s grinning like that. His hair’s a mess, there’s sawdust on his shirt, and he looks socompletelylike someone’s future dad that my heart actually stutters.
“Remind me why we chose the crib with twelve hundred parts?” he mutters, crouching beside me.
“Because this one is aesthetically timeless,’” I reply, “And because the oneyoupicked looked like something a tiny biker would sleep in.”
“It was rock-and-roll themed,” he says, not for the first time. “Those skulls were extremely tasteful.”
I lean over and kiss his cheek, catching a faint whiff of sweat and cedar. “You’ll survive the lullaby playlist and cloud-patterned mobile.”
He grumbles something about censorship, but he’s smiling when he slots the last piece into place and tightens the final screw.
We sit there for a moment in companionable silence, staring at what we made together—well, besides the baby. A pale wooden crib that somehow looks like it belongs here.
“Done,” Max says, leaning back on his hands. “Crib: assembled. Baby: imminent.”
I groan, pressing a palm to my belly. “Don’t say that. They’re already throwing a rave in there. I think they’re trying to punch their way out through my spine.”
Max scoots closer and runs a hand gently over the curve of my belly. “Just excited. Already wants to meet you.”
Just then, there’s a knock at the door—then another one, louder, like whoever’s out there thinks subtlety is for cowards.
“That’ll be them,” Max says, already heading for the hallway.
“I can already hear Lucas arguing with someone,” I mutter, just as the door opens and the full force of Storm & Silence spills into the penthouse like a cheerful natural disaster.
Lucas is first, giving Max a hug. “We come bearing gifts and absolutely no boundaries,” he announces, brandishing a pizza box like a trophy.
Annie sweeps in behind him—black boots, glossy hair, and enough attitude to power a small city. “Where’s the mama-to-be?”
