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Kingston pads over, barefoot and boyish in a pair of low-slung sweats and a white tee that clings in all the right places. His fingers settle low on my spine, his other hand sliding over the crest of my belly like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Like I’m the most natural thing in the world.

“It looks incredible, Mya.” His voice is low and quiet, and it makes my ribs ache a little. “They’re gonna love it.”

I glance around the room again. The neutral colors. The soft lighting. The little wooden mobiles hanging above each crib, with spinning raccoons and badgers and squirrels that twirl like magic when the breeze hits just right. It’s exactly what I wanted. Gender-neutral. Calming. Homey. Like a deep breath that doesn’t get stuck in your chest.

“They better love it,” I tease, my voice tight with something I don’t name. “Took me four nights of Pinterest scrolling, three breakdowns in the baby aisle, and exactly one meltdown because the decals weren’t sticking right.”

Kingston grins, leaning in to kiss my temple. “And let’s not forget the crisis when the first crib arrived with a dent in it.”

“I sobbed, Kingston.”

“You did,” he agrees solemnly. “For twenty minutes. Into a pregnancy pillow.”

“I’m emotionally fragile,” I whisper-dramatically.

“You’re nesting,” he counters.

“I will smother you with that same pregnancy pillow.”

He laughs, the sound vibrating through both of us. The ease of it. The us of it. It’s been a long week. A long month. Hell, it’s been a long life. But in this moment, surrounded by forest creatures and dark wood furniture and the smell of fresh paint and lemon furniture polish, I feel… still.

Anchored.

Safe.

I run my hand along the rail of the crib nearest to me. “You think I’m ready?” I ask before I can stop myself. The question hangs between us, soft and sharp. It’s not really about the nursery. Or the babies. Or even the stack of diapers we’ve started hoarding like apocalypse preppers. It’s about me.

Kingston doesn’t answer right away. He just pulls me closer, wrapping me up in his warmth, his scent, his Kingston-ness.

“I think you’ve been ready longer than you realize,” he says finally, his breath warm against my hairline. “I think you’ve been building a home in that big, brilliant heart of yours since the second you found out you were pregnant. You’ve just been waiting for the right time. And the right team.”

Tears sting the backs of my eyes, but I blink them away. No ugly crying. Not today. We’ve got woodland creatures to impress.

I lean my head on his chest, right where his heart beats steady and sure. And in that little room, in the city that never stops moving, surrounded by bears and foxes and a man who never once hesitated to show up for me—I finally exhale.

Kingston’s bye week slips through my fingers like sand I never managed to hold in the first place. Between the nursery setup, the furniture assembly Olympics, and my sudden, inexplicable obsession with labeling things that don’t need labels—like the baby wipes container—I’m halfway to being the cautionary tale Pinterest warned me about.

And now, it’s the night before the Giants’ game against the Cowboys, and I’m doing the most reckless thing a heavily pregnant woman can do… Hosting twenty-four pro athletes and their gorgeous, intimidating partners in our penthouse.

Because why the hell not?

The place smells like cinnamon, roasted garlic, and the last sliver of my sanity. There’s music playing low in the background, and laughter bouncing off the polished floors like it’s been waiting its whole life for this kind of chaos. I lean against the island, watching Layla Thompson and Olivia Frost debate cranberry sauce versus gravy like world peace depends on it.

The guys are in the media room talking about Dallas like it’s a four-letter word—which, I guess, it kind of is—and the women are scattered between the kitchen and the lounge, a walking Pinterest board of leather jackets, glossy hair, and genuine warmth. I expected tight smiles and side-eyes. Instead, I got compliments on the decor and offers to help with the dishes.

It’s weird. Nice. Disorienting.

Especially when Jasmine Lee drops onto the couch beside me and casually asks, “So, names?”

My brain stutters. “Names?”

“For the twins,” Deja adds, stealing an olive from the cheese board like she owns the place. “C’mon. Spill.”

“Oh,” I laugh, trying to look less panicked than I feel. “I have a Pinterest board. That counts, right?”

Layla gasps. “You’re a board girl too?”