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His hand strokes my hair, slow and gentle, like he’s trying to soothe the wildness still crackling beneath my skin. My cheek rests on the curve of his shoulder, my fingers spread across the center of his chest where his heart hammers like he just ran a hundred yards for me.

“You okay?” he whispers, lips brushing my hairline.

I nod, my voice caught somewhere in the hollow of my throat. “More than okay.”

A heartbeat passes.

Then another.

“I didn’t think…” I pause, swallowing around the knot building in my throat. “That I’d still feel wanted. Not like this. Not… carrying so much extra.”

My hand slips to my belly, rounding gently under the sheet. I don’t say the word pregnant, but it lingers between us like breath on glass.

Kingston’s answer is a soft, reverent hush of touch. He pulls back just enough to meet my gaze, his expression so open it makes my chest ache. “You’re more than I ever wanted. More than I thought I deserved.”

I laugh, shaky and quiet. “That’s not exactly a compliment, you know.”

But he’s not joking. Not even a little. He cups my cheek like it’s delicate. Like I’m delicate.

“I’ve never wanted anyone like this,” he says, low and hoarse. “You. All of you. The girl you were before. The woman you are now. The mother you’re going to be.”

And just like that, my eyes burn. Because I’ve never heard it like that. Never been seen like that. Not even when I tried so hard to believe I could be.

“You’re ruining me,” I whisper, burying my face in the crook of his neck.

His arms wrap tighter around me, anchoring me to this impossible moment. “Nah, baby,” he murmurs against my hair. “I’m putting you back together.”

Chapter Ten

MYA

I wake to the smell of vanilla and cinnamon and the low hum of someone humming off-key down the hall.

For a second, I think I’m dreaming. But then I stretch, and everything aches in the best way—my thighs, my abs, my heart. And that’s when I remember.

Last night wasn’t a dream.

It was Kingston. Raw and reverent. Worshipping me like I was the last prayer he’d ever say. Holding me through it like I was something holy.

My cheeks flush just thinking about it.

I roll toward the empty space beside me, still warm. The sheets are rumpled and smell like skin and sleep and something distinctly male—woodsy and clean and undeniably him. I press my face into his pillow for half a second longer, then peel myself out of bed, slipping one of his oversized T-shirts over my very naked body before shuffling toward the kitchen.

And there he is.

Six-foot-four of honey-golden skin and muscle, barefoot in his grey sweatpants, flipping pancakes with a concentration that could stop time.

“I must still be dreaming,” I murmur from the doorway.

He turns, flashing that crooked, sleepy grin that should be illegal this early in the morning. “You’re awake.”

“You made pancakes.”

“I promised I’d bribe you with them, didn’t I?”

“You did,” I admit, padding toward him. “Didn’t think you’d follow through.”

He slides a golden-brown stack onto a plate like a man on a mission. “Doubting me already? Tsk.”