He crosses the room, drops onto the couch beside me, and instead of taking my feet, he takes me—a hand catching my waist, the other bracing on the cushion as he hauls me over like he’s done it a hundred times and never once asked permission from my dignity.I make a tiny, offended sound—pure habit—while my body goes embarrassingly pliant, like it’s been waiting for exactly this.
He settles back and drags me fully into his lap, my side pressed to his chest, my hips angled across his thighs.His arm locks around me, snug and sure, like he’s building a boundary line the world isn’t allowed to cross.My back fits against him in a way that makes my pulse stutter, because apparently my nervous system is a traitor who loves being claimed.
“Hi,” he says, voice low, like he’s trying to keep the whole world from hearing it.
“Hi,” I answer, and I put that bright, casual tone on it—my best impression of a woman who has not been watching the clock, counting down minutes while her men are out playing golf for some charity tournament, and pretending she’s fine.
Monty’s mouth twitches like he knows I’m full of shit and finds it charming anyway.
Callaway comes in next, already yanking his hoodie over his head.Dirty-blond hair all unruly from running his hands through it too many times.He pauses and his gaze lands on my hand over my stomach.
His face changes so fast it makes my eyes sting.There’s joy there, raw and simple, like his body doesn’t know how to hide it.Like he can’t believe he gets to have this.
And for one awful, gorgeous second, I see the version of him that would burn down the world if it ever tried to take us.
I pat the seat next to us.“Come here, Captain.”
He exhales a sound that wants to be a laugh.“Not captain yet.”
“Soon,” I say.“Come sit anyway.”
He does, with quiet intensity—eager, almost desperate, like he’s been waiting his whole life for somewhere to put all that love.One arm slides behind me, his palm settling at my side, thumb moving in a slow, absent stroke like he’s reassuring himself I’m real.
We sit like that—three bodies pressed together on one couch, our legs tangled, their heat surrounding me, my palm over our daughter like I’m guarding her from everything with teeth bared and a smile on my face.
Outside these walls, the season is over.Outside these walls, people are writing obituaries for dreams and careers and momentum.
In here, I’ve never felt more wanted.
And that fact scares the hell out of me, because wanting is not the same as staying.
“What’s the mood?”I ask lightly, because I’m me and I cope with jokes and denial.“Are we sulking?Are we brooding?Are we going full tragic hero tonight?Because I should warn you—I’m pregnant and hormonal and if either of you stares meaningfully into the middle distance, I will throw a pillow at your face—or start crying.”
Monty’s mouth lifts a fraction.“You’d miss.”
“Rude.I have excellent aim when motivated by spite.”
Callaway kisses the side of my head—quick, like he can’t help it.“I missed you.”
“You were gone, like, two hours.”
“Six, but still.”Monty’s arm tightens, possessive in a way that feels like being wrapped in a warm blanket and also being pinned.“I don’t like being away from you.”
Monty’s gaze slides to Callaway, then to me.His voice is quiet, but it carries that lone-wolf demand, that sense that he expects the truth even if it hurts.“How’re you really?”
There it is.The question that gets under my jokes.The question that says he sees every crack I try to paint over.
My stomach turns—not nausea.Thankfully that’s permanently gone.
“We’re good.”I place a hand on my belly.“Right, baby girl?”
Cally gives me that look that says,Don’t bullshit us.
I let out a breath.“I’m ...okay.I’m sad for you.But I’m also having this weird reaction where I want to cry and have sex and eat an entire cake, sometimes all at once.”
Callaway makes a sound of approval like I just told him I’m proud of him.“All of that sounds manageable.”
Monty’s eyes drop to my stomach.His hand slides from my thigh to the curve under my palm, and he rubs there with his thumb—slow, careful—like he’s trying to memorize this part of me in case the world ever gets stupid enough to try to take it away.
