The changing table we’d purchased months ago stood against the wall, white wood gleaming like it had just come out of the box. A soft rug spread across the floor, patterned with tiny clouds and furry critters in airplanes. The walls were still bare, save for the yellow paint and a single framed print he must’ve hung while I’d been gone—an abstract splash of colors that somehow looked like both a heart and a baseball in motion.
And Brooks, my impossibly stubborn and incredibly caring man, was crouched beside an antique, wooden crib, tightening a screw with the kind of concentration he usually reserved for pitch counts. When he looked up, his grin was boyish, proud.
“Don’t worry, it’s sturdy. Passed my stress test.” He gave the crib rail a firm shake for emphasis.
My throat closed. “Brooks . . .”
He wiped his hands on his sweats before circling them around my waist, resting them at the base of spine in that way I loved.
“I didn’t want to do too much without you,” he said. “But I figured I could get a jumpstart on the heavy lifting. We can pick out the rest together—the paint, the toys, whatever ridiculous, little decals you want on the walls.”
I blinked. “You did all this in the span of a few hours?”
These days, it took ten minutes just to get my shoes on.
A rare flicker of nerves crossed his face. “And if you’d rather have the nursery at your place . . .” His jaw flexed, like the words physically pained him. “That’s fine, too. Just so long as you know that I’ll be there every night by your side.”
The weight of his words sank into my chest, heavy and light all at once. I glanced at the crib, at the space already carved out for a future I wasn’t sure I deserved, and felt my eyes sting.
Brooks exhaled, steady but firm. “I’d be lying, though, if I said I didn’t want you—bothof you—living here with me.”
I caught the faint edge of nerves in his movements, the way his thumb tapped against his thigh, the way he looked at me like he was bracing for impact. This wasn’t the first time we’d circled the idea of our post-birth living situation, but it was the first time he’d cut straight to the chase, no hedging, no half-jokes. Just raw truth.
I swallowed hard, then forced a smile. “I guess I could get on board with that.”
His laugh came out soft, full of relief, like he’d been holding his breath for months and finally let it go. He cupped the back of my neck, pressing his forehead to mine.
“Kitten,” he murmured, voice thick. “You have no idea what that means to me.”
I did, though. Because it meant just as much to me.
His words echoed off the butter-colored walls, warm and steady, but I needed to move, to do something with the rush of emotion swelling in my chest. My gaze landed on the new glider in the corner, the cushions still stiff and smelling faintly of fresh fabric. I lowered myself into it, rocking experimentally. The chair gave a soft squeak as it moved beneath me.
I glanced up at him, lips twitching. “Damn, this thing is dangerously comfortable. You might lose me to it.”
Brooks huffed a laugh, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Pretty sure it’s for the baby, kitten.”
“She can fight me for it,” I said, giving the chair another gentle rock.
He shook his head, still smiling.
God, he looked good like his—sweatpants slung low on his hips, a worn T-shirt stretched across his chest, lids heavy as he watched me from under dark lashes. And fuck, the outline of his cock was right there, thick against the soft gray fabric, just out of reach.
Gameday Brooks was hot, but slightly mussed, sweatpants Brooks was downright lethal. Unguarded, relaxed, and so fucking tempting, I could barely breathe.
“Tell me something,” I murmured, letting my eyes rake over him. “You said you stress-tested the crib, but what about this chair?”
For half a beat, he blinked at me, brow furrowing like he hadn’t caught on. I curled my fingers into the waistband of his sweats and tugged him closer, the fabric stretching as I pulled until his hips brushed the edge of the glider. My hand slid lower, pressing against the thick outline of his cock.
“Jesus, kitten,” he rasped, bracing a hand on the armrest as the chair rocked beneath us.
“Mm,” I hummed, curling my hand firmer against him. “Feels like you’re holding up just fine. So . . .”
I eased his pants down just enough, the elastic snapping against his hips when his cock sprang free, thick and flushed and already leaking for me.
“. . . let’s see about the chair.”
Brooks
