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I lean against the counter and smile. “You cook now?”

He shrugs, reaching for the maple syrup. “I YouTubed it once when I couldn’t sleep. Turns out the secret’s in the butter. And not burning shit.”

I grin, because of course it is. “Color me impressed.”

“Color you fed,” he says, setting a plate in front of me. He pauses, then dips his head, his lips brushing my temple. “You need food before you go.”

His voice is quiet, but it lands like a warm weight in my chest. Thoughtful. Unspoken.

I sit on a barstool, tucking one leg under me. “You remembered I have to pick Reese up.”

“I remember everything,” he says simply, sitting next to me. His plate stays untouched as he watches me take my first bite.

I moan—loud, shameless, half a joke.

Kingston’s grip on his fork tightens. “You keep making noises like that and we’re not leaving this apartment.”

“You’re not leaving,” I tease around another bite. “I’ve got a best friend to retrieve.”

He leans back in his chair, watching me like I’m the sunrise and he’s got nowhere else to be.

And maybe that’s the part that undoes me.

Because this man—this massive, emotionally guarded, stoic, grumpy football god—is sitting here, cross-legged on a barstool, waiting for me to eat pancakes like it’s the highlight of his week.

I reach for his hand.

He laces our fingers together without hesitation, thumb brushing slow circles against mine.

“I didn’t think it could be like this,” I say softly. “Feeling this safe. This… okay.”

Kingston doesn’t smile. He doesn’t need to. His eyes say everything.

“It can,” he says. “With me, it will be.”

I swear, leaving him this morning feels like the worst kind of betrayal. My stomach’s still warm from breakfast—and from last night—but I can’t stop myself from dragging my feet as I pull on my boots by the door.

He leans against the counter, arms folded, and gives me that lazy, satisfied grin like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. “You sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

I shake my head, lips curving around a smile I can’t contain. “Tempting. But I don’t think Reese would appreciate a six-foot-three shadow trailing us to meetings.”

Kingston chuckles, pushing off the counter with the kind of fluid, muscle-coiled grace that makes me dizzy. “Fine. But if you’re not back by dinner, I’m sending a search party.”

I step into him, my hands sliding up his bare chest one last time for good measure. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I prefer the term devoted,” he murmurs, kissing my temple, then my lips, then lower—just once, right over the swell of my belly. “Go knock her socks off.”

God help me. This man. This life. I leave feeling kissed out and aching already to get back.

Reese’s text comes through just as I’m pulling into the airport pickup lane.

Reese: Landed. Where the hell are you, woman? I need eyes on that bump!

She spots me before I spot her—waving a perfectly manicured hand in the air, pulling a hot pink suitcase that definitely wasn’t built for New York sidewalks. She’s glowing. Glowing like someone who knows she’s built an empire out of spandex and sass.

“MYA!” she squeals, barely waiting for the car to stop before she yanks the door open and practically hurls herself into the front seat.

I laugh and catch her in a hug. “Hi to you too.”