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“I’m sorry,” Kingston says eventually, his voice like gravel laced with regret. “You didn’t deserve that.”
I lean my head back, resting it against his shoulder. “Horseshoe Bay was supposed to be a reset. A chance to breathe. And then Fletch happened.”
His arms wrap around me like a fortress. “You don’t have to talk about him.”
“I know.” My chest tightens. “But I’m glad I am. Because he doesn’t take up space in my head the way he used to.” I turn slightly, enough to see Kingston’s eyes. “Not now that you’re in there.”
His expression softens. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“I know,” I whisper. “That’s what scares me.”
He presses his lips to my temple. “Let me help you build something different, Mya. Something safe.”
A lump wedges itself in my throat. “Then let’s start with the nursery.”
He grins, lazy and lopsided. “Tell me what you need.”
“Everything,” I admit, laughing through the ache. “I need everything.”
“Good thing I’ve got a bye-week.” His hand slides over my bump, gentle and reverent. “We’ll start tomorrow. Paint swatches. Furniture. Name lists. Diaper warmers and all that other weird shit we’re going to Google at 2 a.m.”
“And blackout curtains,” I add, eyes fluttering closed. “For me. Not them.”
Kingston chuckles, deep and low. “You got it.”
We fall quiet again, the hush wrapping around us like a second skin. My body relaxes, the tension melting into the water between us. It’s not perfect. It’s not easy.
But it’s something.
Chapter Thirteen
Mya
I’ve seen a lot of beautiful things in my life—sunrises over Horseshoe Bay, Kingston in a tight endzone stance, the twin lines on a stick that ruined and remade my world—but none of them compare to this.
To this.
The nursery.
Warm olive-green walls wrap around us like a forest in bloom, the paint still carrying the faint scent of something new and possible. Decals of foxes and deer and wide-eyed owls peek out from the corners, their cartoon faces innocent and curious, as if they too are waiting to meet the two tiny tornadoes currently wreaking havoc in my womb. The cherrywood cribs are lined up side by side beneath the wide bay window, sturdy and regal, a deep mahogany against the soft, earthy tones. The matching changing dresser sits between them like a referee about to call fouls on midnight meltdowns.
And Kingston?
He’s crouched on the floor, screwing the last bolt into place like it’s game day and he’s assembling a championship-winning play. His sleeves are pushed up, exposing veiny forearms dusted with sawdust and effort. Sweat clings to his temples, curls damp and messy, and there’s this stupidly proud smile tugging at his mouth—like he just built Rome with an Allen wrench and a prayer.
“Damn,” I murmur from the doorway, sipping from my third cup of decaf tea today because life is cruel and caffeine is canceled. “You ever consider ditching the Giants for HGTV?”
He glances up, brow arched, that smile spreading like wildfire. “What, and give up the glory of being tackled by men twice my size every Sunday?”
I smirk. “You’re clearly in the wrong profession, mister. These cribs are symmetrical. As in, perfectly symmetrical. You know I measure everything, right? I did a full rotation with the level earlier.”
Kingston chuckles, rising to his full six-foot-four glory with a groan and a crack of his spine. “You’ve been nesting, sweetheart. Obsessively. That level’s your new best friend.”
I stick out my tongue, which is about all the sass I’ve got left. “I’m not nesting. I’m… preparing.”
“For what? A squirrel convention?”
“For our babies.” My hand drifts to the bump that’s become my permanent center of gravity. It’s huge. Like, whoa huge. Every time I catch my reflection, I double take. I look like I swallowed a yoga ball, and I’m still getting bigger.
