Page 69

Reese’s spot is empty.

Typical. She’s probably already halfway through her morning skincare routine and organizing Thorin’s suitcase by color and emotional significance.

I stretch, wince at the stab of pressure in my lower back, and pad out into the hall. Everything’s still and quiet except for the low gurgle of the coffee machine in the kitchen and the sound of a cabinet closing gently.

I follow the scent of espresso and masculine cologne straight into the kitchen, where Thorin’s leaning against the counter in grey joggers and a band tee that’s seen better days, hair loose and wild from sleep.

He looks up and grins around a sip of coffee. “Morning, Squish.”

I rub a hand over my face. “How are you this awake?”

He shrugs. “Tour life, baby. My body thinks it’s noon and we’re already three interviews deep and someone’s lost a guitar pick and their mind.”

I grunt and shuffle toward the fridge. “Don’t mind me. Just here to see if I can find anything cold and salty before my body revolts.”

Thorin slides the second coffee mug across the counter toward me. “I already added that cinnamon oat stuff you like. Didn’t know if you were on caffeine strike.”

I blink at him, touched. “Thanks.”

He nods, easy and quiet, watching me over the rim of his cup. “You sleep okay?”

“Yeah. I mean, I woke up three times to pee, and I think one of the babies is trying to play footsie with my pancreas, but otherwise? Solid eight.”

A slow smile pulls across his mouth, softening the scar above his eyebrow. “You’re handling this better than I expected.”

“Define ‘this,’” I mutter into my mug. “The twins? The band stuff? Living with a professional quarterback who folds his laundry like a psycho and treats almond milk like it’s holy water?”

He chuckles. “All of it.”

I lean against the counter beside him, shoulder to shoulder. His presence is grounding in the way a good song is—familiar and safe, even if it hurts a little.

“Honestly? Some days I feel like I’ve got it handled. Other days, I have a full-blown panic spiral because I forgot to reply to a text or I can’t find a bra that fits, and I start wondering if I’m even qualified to be someone’s mom.”

Thorin’s quiet for a beat, then sets his coffee down and turns to face me fully.

“You don’t have to have it all figured out yet, Mya.”

“I know,” I whisper, not looking at him.

“No, really. I mean it. You’ve already done the hardest part. You walked away from a life that wasn’t working. You chose yourself. And now you’re building something better.”

My throat tightens. “I still miss them. The band. Fletch. Sometimes I feel guilty that I’m okay.”

Thorin nudges my elbow. “You’re allowed to be okay. That doesn’t mean you didn’t love them. It just means you’re growing. You’re doing what’s right for you—and for them too, whether they see it or not.”

“I didn’t expect to be here, you know?” My voice cracks, just a little. “In New York. Pregnant. Relearning how to be okay in my own skin.”

He tilts his head, eyes soft. “No one expects where life takes them. But you’re here. And you’re showing up. Every damn day. I don’t know many people who could do that with this much grace and grit.”

I blink hard. “Why are you so good at this big-brother stuff?”

“Because someone’s gotta remind you how badass you are when you forget.”

I sniff, then steal the last sip of his coffee just to be a menace. He doesn’t even complain—just takes the empty mug from my hands and ruffles my hair like I’m still sixteen and trying to dye it blue in a motel sink.

“Reese’s in the shower,” he says, switching gears. “You’ve got about ten minutes before she comes out guns blazing with sample swatches and a vision board for the tour wardrobe.”

I groan. “Send help.”