Monty’s gaze doesn’t leave my face.“You can cry,” he says simply.“You can do whatever you need.”
That tenderness makes my eyes sting again.I blink hard, because I refuse to be defeated by my own emotions on a Tuesday night.
I point at them.“Are you two helping Dad?Camp starts soon.”
Callaway’s face brightens a little, because he loves a plan, loves a job, loves being useful.Then he shakes his head.“Nah.Creed and Luther will be in charge this year.We’ve got plenty of player volunteers.”
Monty nods once.“We’ll be enjoying us.”
There’s something in the way he says it—us—that lands like a hand around my waist.Not gentle.Not careful.Not asking.
Callaway shifts closer, his mouth near my ear.“We’re gonna take care of you,” he murmurs, and the warmth of his breath makes my skin go sensitive, “all summer and plan trips, and ...be everything you need.”
Monty’s hand stays on my stomach.His thumb moves once—slow, reverent—like he’s writing something into my skin that he expects the universe to respect.
“You’re not doing this alone,” he says, so low it feels like it’s meant for the space between my ribs.“Not for a second.”
My eyes sting, because of course they do.Because apparently my hormones have turned me into a walking public service announcement about feelings.
“I love you,” I say anyway, because if I don’t say it now, I’ll spend the next ten years regretting it in the shower like a sad little goblin.“Both of you.”
Callaway goes still like I’ve just given him a medal he never thought he’d earn.His gaze slides over my face, my mouth, my belly—like he wants to keep me in his sight forever, just in case.
Then he leans in and kisses me.
It’s a kiss that says,I’m here.I’m staying.I don’t know how to do this gently all the time, but I will learn for you.
“I love you,” he murmurs against my lips, voice breaking on the words like they matter too much to be easy.“I love you so much, Ves.”
My laugh comes out damp and ridiculous.“Okay, wow.We’re doing this.We’re just ...saying things.”
“Yeah,” Callaway says, like it’s obvious.Like he’s been waiting forever for permission to say it out loud.His hand spreads a little over my side, possessive without apology.“We’re doing it.”
Monty touches me like a man who’s decided I’m his.His hand slides up, not taking over, just joining mine—his fingers threading with mine over my belly like we’re both holding the same miracle because neither of us trusts the world to be gentle.
“I love you,” he says.
It comes out rougher than Callaway’s, like it had to scrape its way past pride and old instincts and whatever part of him still believes love is a risk you don’t survive.
Then he tips my chin up with two fingers, demanding in the way only Monty can be—even when he’s tender—and he kisses me like a vow.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine for a beat.His breath is warm.His eyes are intense, almost too much, like if I look away I’ll miss something important.
Callaway leans in and presses a kiss to my cheek, then the corner of my mouth, then my temple—like he can’t stop himself, like affection pours out of him and he’s done trying to contain it.
I turn my head and catch his lips again, quick this time, a little smile in it because I’m still me.Still sarcastic, still allergic to letting a moment be too perfect.
Callaway doesn’t even hesitate.“I love you.”
Then he looks at Monty, bold as hell, like he’s learned he doesn’t have to ask for space in this family.
“And I love you too,” Callaway adds, softer, aimed at him.“So fucking much.”
Monty’s eyes narrow like he’s not used to being loved like that—openly, without conditions—but he doesn’t reject it.He doesn’t back away.
He just lifts his chin a fraction and says, “Love you too.”
Callaway grins, pleased and smug and ridiculously pretty about it, and I hate him for making my heart do dumb things.
