But this was real. He was real. We were real.
“Come on,” I said, taking his hand and tugging him toward the kitchen. “I’m making pancakes. With extra blueberries.”
Burke followed willingly, his larger hand engulfing mine with careful strength. “Yes, sir,” he said, the military response softened by the smile in his voice. “Whatever you want.”
What I wanted, more than anything, was right here—this man, this home, this life we were building together piece by careful piece. A family chosen rather than endured. A future bright with promise rather than shadowed by fear.
As we moved around Jojo’s kitchen in the familiar dance of breakfast preparation—Burke mixing batter while I heated the griddle, our movements synchronized through practice and shared purpose—I caught sight of Sterling’s empty glass still sitting in the sink. Soon it would be joined by others—evidence of visits, of holidays, of the slow construction of bonds that would hold through whatever storms lay ahead.
The Callahan brothers. My alpha. My family.
I placed my hand on my stomach, feeling the tiny flutter that had become as familiar as my own heartbeat. Our child would know safety. Would know belonging. Would know they were loved not in spite of who they were, but exactly because of it.
No matter what came before, no matter what waited ahead—we had this. We had each other.
And that, I was learning, was enough.
Chapter Nineteen
~ Burke ~
I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand as I carried the last box inside. Our entire life—everything Danny and I owned—had fit in the back of my truck with room to spare.
It was both pathetic and somehow perfect.
We’d built this whole house from the ground up, picked out every window and door, debated paint colors until I thought my eyes would cross, and we could still move all our worldly possessions in one trip.
The afternoon sun beat down on the porch as I stepped inside, setting the box of kitchen supplies next to the meager collection already on the counter. I glanced around at our new home—all 2,000 square feet of gleaming hardwood, fresh paint, and empty space. Our few belongings huddled together in the living room like they were afraid to spread out.
“We need more shit,” I said, opening the box to start unpacking mugs.
Danny waddled into the kitchen, one hand braced against the small of his back, his pregnant belly leading the way like it had a mind of its own. At thirty-eight weeks, our baby had dropped noticeably, leaving Danny with the distinctive pregnant-man waddle that was both adorable and heartbreaking.
“We don’t need more shit,” he corrected, though his eyes kept darting to the empty shelves and bare walls. “We need the right shit. Stuff that matters.”
I crossed to him, brushing a kiss across his forehead. “Babe, at this point, I’d take any shit. The place looks like we’re squatting.”
He laughed, the sound bright and genuine despite the obvious discomfort written across his face. “Give it two weeks.Once this kid arrives, we’ll be drowning in baby crap. Trust me, I’ve been watching Carter and Jojo. It’s like toys and clothes just multiply when you’re not looking.”
The thought of our baby—our child—actually being here, physically present in this house we’d built together, sent a jolt of anticipation through me. Two weeks. Fourteen days. Soon we’d be parents, responsible for keeping another human alive and happy and whole.
“Soon” both terrified and thrilled me.
Danny moved past me toward the living room, his hand trailing along the wall for balance. “The couch should go under the window,” he called. “And the rocking chair definitely in the corner by the fireplace.”
I followed, watching as he gestured emphatically, already planning the layout despite our severe furniture shortage. This was Danny in full nesting mode—the omega equivalent of a military operation, complete with tactical positioning and strategic resource allocation.
For the past month, he’d been rearranging our temporary quarters at Rawley’s place at least twice a week, unable to settle as his due date approached.
“You know the couch is the only piece of furniture we actually own, right?” I pointed out, dropping onto said couch to demonstrate. “Everything else is on loan from Macon until we can afford real furniture.”
Danny waved a dismissive hand. “Details. The point is—“ He paused, mid-gesture, one hand flying to his stomach. “Whoa. Big kick.”
I was at his side in an instant, my palm pressed against the curve of his belly where our baby was doing what felt like gymnastics. “Jesus, kid’s got a future as a soccer star all planned out.”
“Or a Navy SEAL,” Danny said with a grin. “Just like Daddy.”
The baby kicked again, hard enough that I could feel it through Danny’s thin t-shirt. Our child. Our miracle. The tiny person who’d turned my world upside down and given it meaning I’d never imagined possible.
