Max nods toward me. “Go easy on her, okay?”
“I’m pregnant, not allergic to people,” I call back, laughing.
Lucas makes a beeline for the kitchen with the pizza, muttering something about being lied to regarding garlic knots, while DeShawn follows with a six-pack tucked under one arm.
They all funnel toward me like I’m the sun and they’re a pack of wonderfully chaotic planets. Annie gets to me first, pulling me into a hug and presenting a silver gift bag with a dramatic little flourish.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I say, touched.
“Wedid,” Lucas says from behind her. “And we fought about it for an hour. This was the least likely to start a fire.”
I tug out the tissue paper, already grinning. The first item is a onesie—soft, pale yellow, and absolutely perfect. Bold black letters declare:
“Band’s Cutest Member.”
I burst out laughing. “Oh my god.”
“Wait,” Annie says, digging back in with a gleam in her eye. “There’s more.”
She pulls out a tiny black bandana. Embroidered in silver thread:
“Lead Meowcalist.”
I look down at Melody, who chooses that exact moment to blink at us with disdain, like she knows we’re planning something deeply undignified for her future.
My laughter wobbles, and suddenly I’m blinking fast. “You guys…”
“Don’t you dare cry,” Lucas says, pointing at me dramatically. “We are not equipped for tears and I’m emotionally fragile.”
“I blame the hormones,” I sniff, wiping at my eyes with the sleeve of Max’s shirt. “This is… really, really sweet.”
Annie leans in for another gentle hug, her bracelet clinking softly against my arm. “You’re stuck with us now, sweetheart. Might as well lean into it.”
And just like that, the room bursts into warm, familiar chaos—debates over shelf placement, someone shouting about Allen wrenches, someone else insisting mobiles are a scam.
I glance at Max. He’s already watching me, that soft, quiet smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—the one that gets me every time.
Yeah.This is home.
***
We’re halfway through hanging the mobile above the crib—an objectively perfect little masterpiece featuring cartoon kittens playing instruments—when I feel… it.
Not a kick.
Not a Braxton Hicks.
Something… wetter.
I freeze mid-reach, one hand clutching the string of a tambourine cat, and stare down at the floor.
“Max?” I say, very calmly. Very dangerously. “Either I just peed myself—or my water just broke.”
The mobile hits the rug with a dull clatter. Max stares at me like I’ve just announced the ceiling is collapsing. Then—belatedly—he jumps into action.
“What? Now?! Are you sure? Are you sure-sure?!” His voice keeps rising like it’s auditioning for a falsetto solo.
“Yes now!” I grip the dresser. “This is not a drill!”
