Chapter Eighteen
Aleksi
It’s been a few days since our date on the rooftop and now I’m headed to the house to pick up the keys, it’s only the second time I’ve actually seen the house.
I didn’t even go inside. Vivi told me that the neighbor was thinking about selling so I drove by, made a call to Trey’s realtor, and I put an offer on it the first hour it was on the market.
They accepted at full price since they had already bought a house in another state and had moved.
My only requirement was that it was stroller walking distance to Vivi and Isla’s houses in the neighborhood and that it had at least three bedrooms.
This house has five bedrooms plus an office and sits on a quiet street three blocks from Trey and Vivi's place, tucked behind a row of maples that have already started their autumn show.
The gold bleeding into orange, leaves catching the late-afternoon light like they're trying to hold onto summer just a little longer.
I pull up to the curb and kill the engine, letting the silence settle around me like a held breath.
A fenced backyard to play catch when he gets older, a gourmet kitchen that Kendall won’t be cooking much in, and a nursery off the primary with windows that face east so she can feel close while he’s a newborn.
The realtor's already gone—keys left under the mat, paperwork signed two days ago in a coffee shop while Kendall was at a team physical and I was pretending I wasn't about to buy a house for a woman who thinks we're keeping things simple.
I grab my phone, scroll to the group chat with Trey and Hunter.
Me: Got the keys. Heading in now.
Three dots appear immediately.
Trey: About damn time. Vivi's been pacing since lunch.
Hunter: She made him drive by twice yesterday. Just to check the lighting.
Trey: It was THREE times. And she cried at the mailbox.
Me: Why did she cry at the mailbox?
Trey: "Because it's perfect for their little family." Direct quote.
Hunter: Your girl's gonna lose it when she sees this place.
Me: She's not "my girl." Not officially.
Trey: You bought her a house, bro. That's pretty official.
Hunter: He's also been to four ultrasounds and has a diaper bag in his truck.
Me: It's a GO BAG. For emergencies.
Trey: With diapers.
I lock the phone and step out into the cool air, the kind that smells like wet leaves and woodsmoke from someone's chimney down the block.
The house is painted a soft gray-blue with white shutters, there's a porch wide enough for a bench and a pair of boots and maybe a stroller someday.
The lawn needs mowing. The hedges need trimming.
It's perfect in the way things are when they're waiting for the right people to fill them.
I unlock the door and step inside and I’m greeted with hardwood floors, high ceilings.
Light pours through windows that haven't been cleaned in a while, but it doesn't matter because the bones are good.
The kitchen opens to a living room with a fireplace that looks like it actually works.
Upstairs, the master is bigger than I expected—enough room for a king bed and a chair by the window . And then there's the nursery.
I stand in the doorway and just… look.
It's small. Not tiny, but cozy—the kind of room that feels like a hug. The walls are a soft cream, the trim painted white. There's a closet with double doors and a window that overlooks the backyard, where a swing set sits rusting under a tarp that I'll have hauled away before next week.
I picture the crib here. The rocking chair there. The star map framed above the changing table, coordinates pointing to the night we met and the night everything changed.
My chest tightens.
I pull out my phone again, open the camera, and take a slow pan of the room. Then I text Trey.
Me: Send Vivi.
The reply is instant.
Trey: We're already in the car.
Less than two minutes later, I hear tires pull onto the cement driveway and then the sound of Vivi's voice before I even see her.
"Oh my God, Trey, look at the porch!"
I meet them at the door.
Vivi shoves past me into the entryway and gasps. "Aleksi… This is—" She stops, hand over her mouth, eyes welling up. "She's going to cry."
The house is empty since the previous owners moved a couple months ago but I already know that Vivi’s going to fill this place and make it perfect for Kendall.
"That's the idea," I say softly.
She walks through the house like she's cataloging every inch for a presentation. I follow, watching her take in the kitchen, the living room, the way the light hits the stairs.
"I’ve been in this house before but it’s so different with nothing in it. A total blank canvas." she says, already halfway way up their staircase.
I nod.
She disappears. Trey and I exchange a look.
"She's gonna cry again," he says.
"Yep."
A beat later, we hear it—a soft, choked sound from the nursery.
When we get upstairs, Vivi's standing in the middle of the room, arms wrapped around herself, tears streaming down her face.
"It's perfect," she whispers. "Aleksi, it's perfect. Kendall deserves this."
I scratch the back of my neck, suddenly self-conscious. "I know she does. Can you make it everything she’d want? I need her to say yes to the house."
Vivi turns to me, eyes fierce. "She's going to say yes… but the house isn’t the only reason why."
She says, as if she knows more about Kendall’s feelings than I do. I’m sure she does.
"Okay," Vivi says, wiping her eyes and pulling out her phone. "Let's talk about staging. We need furniture, obviously. The crib you already bought—genius. We'll add the rocking chair, a dresser, maybe a bookshelf for all the Finnish folklore you're definitely going to read to this baby."
"My mom already sent me a few boxes of things. New things, and stuff from when I was a baby. I think you’ll be able to use most of it," I say.
"That’s perfect." She grins. "Also, we need art. I'm thinking soft neutrals, maybe some constellation prints to tie in with the star map?"
"Vivi," Trey says gently. "He just bought the house."
"And now we're making it a home," she says, undeterred. "We have a week before the lamaze class, and the opening game, right? That’s plenty of time for the painters and the furniture to arrive. You said no budget right? Because I’ll have to pay rush fees for everything."
“Right. Whatever it takes for her to love the house.”
I look around the room again, imagining it filled. The crib. The chair. Kendall rocking our son to sleep in the corner. Him learning to crawl on the floor here.
"One week. I want her in before the start of the season." I echo.
Vivi squeezes my arm. "Trust me. We've got this. Leave it up to me."
That night, I'm back at my apartment, staring at the photos I took of the nursery.
The empty room that won't stay empty much longer.
The window that will frame morning light.
The closet that will hold tiny clothes and soft blankets and all the things I'm secretly buying online when I should be sleeping.
My phone buzzes.
Kendall: Are you awake?
My heart does that stupid jump it always does when her name lights up my screen.
Me: Yeah. You okay?
Kendall: Can't sleep. He's doing gymnastics.
I smile.
Me: Want me to come over? I can bore him into submission with hockey stats.
Kendall: What an offer.
Me: That's not a no.
Three dots. Then—
Kendall: Actually… yeah. If you're not too tired.
I'm already grabbing my keys.
Twenty minutes later, I'm standing outside her door, takeout bag in one hand, a heating pad in the other.
She opens the door in leggings and one of my old hoodies—the one she "forgot" to take off the morning after she stayed the night at my apartment.
It looked too damn good on her to ask for it back, and I like thinking of her wearing something of mine.
"You brought food," she says, eyeing the bag.
"You said you couldn't sleep. That usually means you also forgot to eat."
She sighs. "You're annoyingly observant."
"Comes with the full package. Some traits you’re going to like, some, you're not, but you’re stuck with me now," I say, stepping inside.
Her apartment smells like lavender and ginger—from the tea she’s been drinking that my mom keeps sending her. The star map is framed on the wall above her couch, coordinates glowing softly in the lamplight. Every time I see it, something in my chest loosens.
“Can I take that back? Just for a few days? I want to make some changes to it.” I tell her, pointing to the framed coordinates.
She looks at it as if she’s not willing to part with it, but then she nods.
Then she sinks onto the couch, hand on her belly, and I set the food on the coffee table before sitting beside her.
"How's he doing?" I ask.
"Active," she says. "I think he's training for the Stanley Cup already."
I laugh. "That's my boy."
She looks at me, something soft and unguarded in her eyes. "You really think he's a hockey player?"
"I think he's our kid," I say. "Which means he's probably stubborn, loves carbs, and has excellent taste in parents."
She snorts, but her smile lingers.
We eat in comfortable silence. Pad thai and spring rolls and the kind of quiet that doesn't need filling. When she's done, she leans back against the cushions, eyes half-closed, and I reach for the heating pad.
"Here," I say, plugging it in. "For your back."
She doesn't argue. Just shifts so I can tuck it behind her, and then she sighs, long and relieved.
"Thank you," she murmurs.
"Anytime."
Her hand finds mine, fingers threading through mine like it's automatic. We sit like that for a while, her head tipped back, my thumb drawing lazy circles on her knuckles.
"Aleksi?" she says eventually.
"Yeah?"
"You're really good at this."
I glance over. "At what?"
"At… being here. At knowing what I need before I ask."
My throat tightens. "You make it easy."
She huffs a soft laugh. "I really don't."
"Yeah, you do." I squeeze her hand. "You just don't know it yet."
She turns to look at me, and for a second, I think she might say something—something big, something true. But then the baby kicks, hard enough that I feel it against my leg, and she gasps.
"Did you—?"
"I felt it," I say, grinning.
She guides my hand to the spot, and there it is again—a firm, insistent nudge.
"He's saying hi," I whisper.
"Or complaining about the pad thai," she says, but her voice is thick.
I lean down and press my lips to the curve of her belly. "Hei, pikkuinen," I murmur. "Your mama's tired. Let her sleep, okay? I'll tell you a story tomorrow."
When I sit back up, Kendall's eyes fill with emotion.
"You're going to be such a good dad," she whispers.
The words hit me square in the chest. I don't trust my voice, so I just pull her into me, her head tucking under my chin, my hand resting on the place where our son is growing.
"We're going to be okay," I say softly. "All three of us."
She doesn't answer. But she doesn't pull away either.
And for now, that's enough.
I stay until she falls asleep, her breathing evening out, her hand still tangled with mine. I grab the framed stars and slip out as quietly as I came, locking the door behind me and texting her from the car.
Me: Locked up. Text me when you wake up.
Then I drive home through the rain-slicked streets, thinking about the secret house I bought for them and the life I hope is in our future.
One more week until the reveal. One more day until I know if I’ve royally fucked up, or did something great.
One week until I tell her that I love her.
One week to turn that empty nursery into a promise I'm ready to keep.
I pull into my parking spot, kill the engine, and sit there for a moment, letting the quiet settle.
Then I open my phone and pull up the photo of the nursery again.
And I smile.