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“Are you kidding me?” I laugh, breathless and giddy, and stupidly emotional. “You got them matching onesies?”
He shrugs, sheepish and smug all at once. “Couldn’t decide which one I liked more, so I got both. You know… in case they have opinions.”
“They’re the size of cinnamon rolls, Kingston.” I hold one up, marveling at how impossibly small it is. “They can’t even hold their own heads yet.”
“Still counts,” he says, tugging me closer again. “It’s their first merch. Gotta start early.”
“You’re such a dork,” I whisper against his chest, already picturing the babies in them. My heart does this weird, fluttery somersault that leaves me breathless.
“And you love it,” he murmurs.
I do. God, I do.
I press the onesies to my chest and lean into him again, trying to memorize the shape of this moment. The heat of him. The ease. The knowing look in his eyes that says I bought these because I wanted to picture our kids wearing them.
Because I think he did.
And just like that, the unraveling doesn’t feel so scary anymore. Not with him here. Not with these tiny reminders that something beautiful is coming—whether I’m ready or not.
We’re building something.
Something stitched together from second chances and softened scars, from whispered promises and the quiet kind of love that grows in the cracks where everything once broke.
I hold up the matching onesies, the navy fabric comically small in my hands, and arch a brow at Kingston. “So… Giants blue, huh?”
He gives me that cocky half-smile—the one that makes it really hard to remember I’m supposed to be exhausted and emotionally fried. “Damn right.”
I smirk. “What if they’re not into football?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Then they’ll still be the best-dressed babies on the block.”
I snort. “In football gear?”
He steps closer, plucking one of the onesies from my hands and holding it up like it’s a championship trophy. “They’re gonna be in my team colors either way. Doesn’t matter if they come out in sparkly tutus or superhero capes. These babies?”—he taps the tiny logo on the chest—“are part of my backup squad now.”
The warmth in my chest threatens to split me wide open.
They’re not his. Not biologically. Not by blood or DNA or any of the labels people like to use. But the way he says it—my backup squad—you’d think they were written in his bones.
“You do know how this works, right?” I ask, lifting a brow, teasing just to keep from crying. “You’re not the one growing them.”
He rests a hand on my bump and grins. “Yeah, but I’m still on the team. And every team needs a starting lineup and a bench. These babies? First draft picks. I’m just making sure they’re suited up.”
God, he’s ridiculous.
And maybe kind of perfect.
I shake my head, laughing under my breath. “You’re gonna be insufferable.”
He kisses my forehead, his palm still warm on my belly. “You wouldn’t want me any other way.”
He’s not wrong.
It’s a little after noon when we step back out onto Fifth Avenue, the wind snapping my coat open like it knows how much I spent on the damn blowout this morning. But even New York’s sass can’t touch me right now—not with Kingston’s hand in mine and a folded piece of paper in my purse that makes everything feel a little more real.
Two boys.
I glance up at him, heart doing that weightless thing it’s been doing ever since the ultrasound tech turned the screen toward us and made everything shift.
