Chapter 26 Dani
Dani
“Your dagger misses,” Nessa announced, smirking behind her Dungeon Master screen. “Bounces, actually— plink—clean off the ogre’s breastplate.” She mimed the motion with both hands, complete with sound effects.
“Rude,” I said, leaning forward in my chair to adjust the maternity bike shorts that were riding up my ass. Ogres were one thing, but going through my third trimester in the middle of summer was a level of hell I hadn’t been prepared for. “Okay, who wants to help me with this wedgie?”
June snorted. “Girl, you have a bearded bear of a man at home for that.”
“I can’t just tote him around with me everywhere I go.”
“Something tells me that Brooks wouldn’t have a problem with that,” Clarke said around a devilish grin.
I smoothed a hand over the swell of my stomach, which looked more like a beach ball each day.
In fact, just last week, during Carolina’s back-to-school field day, one of the parent volunteers had pulled me into the face-painting station and decided my belly was fair game.
Ten minutes later, I’d been wandering around the blacktop with bright stripes painted across my bump, officially transformed into a fleshy beach ball.
Carolina had howled with laughter. Brooks had taken a page out of my book and pulled out his phone to snap some photos.
It had been a good day—one of those rare ones where everything felt easy and carefree, made easier by Brooks clasping my left hand and Carolina’s sticky, snow cone-covered fingers gently squeezing the other.
Allie had handed me sunscreen without me asking, and her fiancé, Mitchell, had made sure I got the shady chair when my feet had started to swell.
It hadn’t been perfect, but we were all learning how to belong to Carolina together, each in our own way.
And the fact that they had welcomed me into their orbit so easily had hit me harder than I’d expected.
“Settle down, BB,” I whispered to my belly. “Your mama is trying to avenge the villagers.”
Clarke pushed a curl out of her eyes. “Mama is going to have to roll a lot better than a four to even have a chance.”
Jo laughed, the kind of deep laugh that made his shoulders shake under his T-shirt. “Careful, mami. With your luck, she’ll pop out a bruja instead of a baby.”
I didn’t even bother rising to the bait—just reached for my sweating glass of iced tea, too hot and too pregnant to waste energy on comebacks.
The five of us were all tucked into the back room at Thorn Tavern, the one with the good air conditioning, arguably the most magical part of our entire campaign.
Outside, Portland simmered in ninety-plus-degree August heat, the sidewalks glowing like stove burners—hot enough to fry an egg.
Inside, we were cocooned in coolness, surrounded by the faint smell of fried food and spilled hops.
Nero had taken pity on us the second I’d waddled in, plying us with endless pitchers of iced tea and baskets of his famous “Totchos.” Between the air conditioning, the food, and cushy club chairs, it was basically heaven.
“Okay, but for real,” June cut in, stretching her long legs out under the table. “How are you feeling? Like, body-wise. You’re what, thirty weeks?”
“Thirty-three,” I said with a groan. “Baby girl is the size of a bunch of celery, which feels very wrong because I’ve been eating a lot of celery lately. Like, am I committing some kind of prenatal cannibalism? Is this how my horror movie starts?”
Nessa snorted into her tea. “Relax, Hannibal. She’s fine.”
“Yeah,” Jo added. “If anything, you’re just training her to like ranch dressing.”
“Aside from that, my feet hate me, my back hates me, I peed myself when I sneezed yesterday, and apparently, my ankles have gone on sabbatical without telling me.”
“Hot,” June said dryly.
“You asked.” I pointed my pencil in her direction. “Be nice before I cast an eldritch hex on you.”
The table broke into laughter, but underneath it, I felt that same warmth I always had with these people, like no matter how messy or terrifying this whole becoming-a-parent thing felt, I wasn’t alone.
Eventually, their laughter quieted, and Clarke took her turn with the dice. I let myself lean back, one hand resting on my belly which had become second nature.
Seven months in, I still didn’t know if I would be a good mom, but I did know one thing for sure. I was in love with Brooks—madly, stupidly, terrifyingly in love. Coach Daddy was all mine.
And it wasn’t just because he smacked my ass whenever he slid past me in the kitchen or whispered filthy things against my neck with his hand spread over this belly. Don’t get me wrong, those things still had the power to make my pulse race even after all these months.
No, it was the quieter moments that stuck with me.
The everyday, ordinary parts of him that made life feel steady, even when mine had always been anything but.
I saw it in the way he braided Carolina’s hair in the mornings, his big hands clumsy but careful, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration.
And the way his glasses fogged up when he leaned over a sink full of dirty dishes, muttering about the water temperature like it had personally betrayed him.
Lately, he had taken to reading bedtime stories—or box scores or Below Deck weekly recaps, whatever really—to our baby girl.
And every time, something in me lit up right alongside him.
The sound of his voice, low and steady, with his hand spread across my stomach—it made me feel like our daughter already belonged here, folded seamlessly into the rhythm of us.
And it made me fall for him all over again, in a way I hadn’t known was possible. That knowledge grounded me more than anything else. No matter how swollen, exhausted, or unprepared I felt, I knew I wasn’t doing this alone. And I didn’t just mean the whole parenthood thing.
I meant life. Love.
“Alright,” Nessa said suddenly, clapping her hands together. “Before we continue the ogre massacre, we have something else to do first.”
My brow furrowed as Jo disappeared into the tavern’s kitchen and returned a minute later carrying a cake box with the Would Smell as Sweet logo stamped on top. Nero followed, carrying a stack of small plates, forks, and napkins shaped like . . . witch hats?
“What is this?” I asked, suspicion rising.
“You said you didn’t want a baby shower,” Nessa said with a small smile. “But you said nothing about a cake.”
“Or presents.” Clarke pulled a gift bag from beneath her seat.
Jo set the cake on the table and flipped open the lid to reveal a gorgeous, white-frosted thing with piped vines and tiny sugar dragons marching across the top. The words Welcome, Tiny Goblin had been scrolled across the center in curling pink and purple script.
“Oh my god.” My throat tightened. “Jo—”
“Don’t cry yet,” he said, wagging a finger. “Not until you taste it. And I promise, it’s not celery flavored.”
I laughed, even as my eyes burned. Clarke handed me the bag, insisting I tear into it right away.
Inside were a series of small, thoughtful gifts—a soft swaddle covered in tiny bats and moons, a picture book of queer fairy tales that Nessa had hunted down, a pack of onesies Jo had embroidered with sarcastic phrases like Future Dungeon Master and Critical Hit on Poop Saves.
Even Nero had slipped in a pair of teeny-tiny baby Converse—black, of course—tied together with a ribbon. “She’s gonna need good footwear to keep up with the two of you,” he said with a shrug, like it wasn’t the most gut-punching thing I’d ever seen.
At the very bottom of the bag was a small velvet pouch. I untied it to find a set of rainbow-colored dice, glitter catching in the low light of the tavern. Nessa smirked. “For when the goblin is old enough to play with us. Gotta start ‘em young.”
That did me in. Tears spilled hot down my cheeks, and for once, I didn’t bother trying to wipe them away.
It wasn’t big or fancy or a Pinterest nightmare of bows and games like matching a baby’s name to their celebrity parent. It was even better.
“Okay,” I managed, voice breaking. “This is perfect.”
“Good,” June said smugly, raising her glass of tea, which was likely spiked, in a toast. “We love you, Dani Bernal. You and your tiny potato.”
The words wrapped around me like armor, warm and indestructible. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that with friends like mine, my little potato goblin was going to be the luckiest adventurer in the realm.
Later that night, the smell of fresh paint hit me the second I walked in the house. Technically, it was Brooks’s, but at some point in the past few months, it had started to look more like ours.
I hadn’t stayed at the townhouse for weeks.
The baby stuff from my registry and his ridiculous dadchelor party was piled up high in the corner of the living room, my shampoo now lived in the shower right next to his, and most of my shoes and clothes had sneaked their way into his closets, little pops of black tees and denim wedged between his endless rotation of athletic gear.
I was the Hot Topic to his DICK’s Sporting Goods.
Best of all, there were no roommates to accidentally run into in the hallway after a midnight fuck or bang on the bathroom door when I was sucking Brooks’s dick.
“Brooks?” I called out, dropping my loot from today’s Dungeons it was a nursery.
The changing table we’d purchased months ago stood against the wall, white wood gleaming like it had just come out of the box.
A soft rug spread across the floor, patterned with tiny clouds and furry critters in airplanes.
The walls were still bare, save for the yellow paint and a single framed print he must’ve hung while I’d been gone—an abstract splash of colors that somehow looked like both a heart and a baseball in motion.
And Brooks, my impossibly stubborn and incredibly caring man, was crouched beside an antique, wooden crib, tightening a screw with the kind of concentration he usually reserved for pitch counts. When he looked up, his grin was boyish, proud.
“Don’t worry, it’s sturdy. Passed my stress test.” He gave the crib rail a firm shake for emphasis.
My throat closed. “Brooks . . .”
He wiped his hands on his sweats before circling them around my waist, resting them at the base of spine in that way I loved.
“I didn’t want to do too much without you,” he said. “But I figured I could get a jumpstart on the heavy lifting. We can pick out the rest together—the paint, the toys, whatever ridiculous, little decals you want on the walls.”
I blinked. “You did all this in the span of a few hours?”
These days, it took ten minutes just to get my shoes on.
A rare flicker of nerves crossed his face. “And if you’d rather have the nursery at your place . . .” His jaw flexed, like the words physically pained him. “That’s fine, too. Just so long as you know that I’ll be there every night by your side.”
The weight of his words sank into my chest, heavy and light all at once. I glanced at the crib, at the space already carved out for a future I wasn’t sure I deserved, and felt my eyes sting.
Brooks exhaled, steady but firm. “I’d be lying, though, if I said I didn’t want you—both of you—living here with me.”
I caught the faint edge of nerves in his movements, the way his thumb tapped against his thigh, the way he looked at me like he was bracing for impact.
This wasn’t the first time we’d circled the idea of our post-birth living situation, but it was the first time he’d cut straight to the chase, no hedging, no half-jokes. Just raw truth.
I swallowed hard, then forced a smile. “I guess I could get on board with that.”
His laugh came out soft, full of relief, like he’d been holding his breath for months and finally let it go. He cupped the back of my neck, pressing his forehead to mine.
“Kitten,” he murmured, voice thick. “You have no idea what that means to me.”
I did, though. Because it meant just as much to me.
His words echoed off the butter-colored walls, warm and steady, but I needed to move, to do something with the rush of emotion swelling in my chest. My gaze landed on the new glider in the corner, the cushions still stiff and smelling faintly of fresh fabric.
I lowered myself into it, rocking experimentally.
The chair gave a soft squeak as it moved beneath me.
I glanced up at him, lips twitching. “Damn, this thing is dangerously comfortable. You might lose me to it.”
Brooks huffed a laugh, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Pretty sure it’s for the baby, kitten.”
“She can fight me for it,” I said, giving the chair another gentle rock.
He shook his head, still smiling.
God, he looked good like his—sweatpants slung low on his hips, a worn T-shirt stretched across his chest, lids heavy as he watched me from under dark lashes. And fuck, the outline of his cock was right there, thick against the soft gray fabric, just out of reach.
Gameday Brooks was hot, but slightly mussed, sweatpants Brooks was downright lethal. Unguarded, relaxed, and so fucking tempting, I could barely breathe.
“Tell me something,” I murmured, letting my eyes rake over him. “You said you stress-tested the crib, but what about this chair?”
For half a beat, he blinked at me, brow furrowing like he hadn’t caught on.
I curled my fingers into the waistband of his sweats and tugged him closer, the fabric stretching as I pulled until his hips brushed the edge of the glider.
My hand slid lower, pressing against the thick outline of his cock.
“Jesus, kitten,” he rasped, bracing a hand on the armrest as the chair rocked beneath us.
“Mm,” I hummed, curling my hand firmer against him. “Feels like you’re holding up just fine. So . . .”
I eased his pants down just enough, the elastic snapping against his hips when his cock sprang free, thick and flushed and already leaking for me.
“. . . let’s see about the chair.”