Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
MYA
I t’s ridiculous how just hearing his voice—low and gruff and laced with barely veiled affection—can reassemble the parts of me that felt scattered an hour ago on the kitchen floor. Like he’s a glue stick and I’m kindergarten-level fragile.
But I can’t let myself unravel again. Not tonight. Not when there’s still work to do and unread emails stacked like skyscrapers in my inbox, all flagged red. Urgent. Overdue. Important.
So I do what I’ve always done when emotions threaten to tip the balance?—
I bury them beneath productivity.
Laptop open. Planner flipped. Pen twirling between my fingers.
I spend the next two hours knee-deep in mood boards and launch mock-ups for Reese’s maternity line, replying to DMs on the band’s account, fielding tour dates and locations from Penelope, and updating the Eighteendust socials. It’s an organized chaos of hashtags, merch drops, and late-night aesthetic posts to hit overseas markets.
By the time I finally crawl into bed, my spine is aching and my eyes are dry from staring at too much backlight. I grab my iPad, tap open FaceTime, and hit Reese .
She answers on the second ring.
And I see it immediately.
The strain in her shoulders.
The tension in her jaw.
The forced smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
Reese always glows—like California sunshine and caffeine-fueled charisma—but tonight?
She looks dimmed.
“Hey, babe,” I say softly, propping the iPad on my bent knees. “You look like you’ve had a day.”
She exhales a humorless laugh, running a hand through her loose ponytail. “You could say that. Or you could say I’m one emotional hiccup away from staging a dramatic walkout in the middle of the studio. Either one works.”
Something in my chest tightens.
“What’s going on?” I ask gently.
She hesitates. Which immediately puts me on edge, because Reese doesn’t hesitate. Reese rants. She raves. She drops f-bombs and makes to-do lists at the same time. Hesitation is not her love language.
Her mouth opens, then closes. Finally, she huffs out a sigh. “It’s Fletch.”
I blink. “What about him?”
“The studio sessions have been a disaster,” she says, rubbing the spot between her brows like the words themselves give her a headache. “He’s all over the place—missing cues, forgetting lyrics he wrote, snapping at Carson during playback. It’s like emotional whiplash every five minutes. He’s either a total ghost or a category-five hurricane.”
I swallow hard, throat tight with guilt.
Because a week ago, the legal documents finalizing the termination of his paternal rights were couriered to him in Horseshoe Bay. Documents that I signed with shaking hands and a part of my heart permanently folding in on itself.
I haven’t told Reese.
And I won’t.
Not yet.
Because Fletch may not be the father I want for these babies, but he’s still the man Reese has to face every day in the chaos of promo schedules and sound checks. And I won’t add fuel to the fire.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, hating how hollow it sounds.
“I’m just so—” Reese presses her palms to her face. “—frustrated. The album launches in three weeks. The tour starts next month. We have three final tracks that need to be locked before Friday and he keeps fucking up. Penelope’s losing her mind. Thorin’s trying to play diplomat. And Carson nearly broke his bass over the booth wall.”
I blink. “Wait. Carson? Chill-as-a-cat Carson?”
Reese nods wearily. “Apparently even he have limits.”
I bite my lip. “I’ve… I’ve been getting texts from the guys.”
Her head jerks up. “What?”
“Not about this,” I say quickly. “Nothing about the band. Just… checking in. Thorin asked how I’ve been sleeping. Benji sent a playlist for ‘twin lullaby vibes.’ Carson forwarded me a YouTube video about soundproofing a nursery.”
Reese’s expression flickers. Relief, maybe. Maybe something more complicated.
“They care,” I add, softer now. “They’re trying to make space between what’s falling apart and what still matters.”
“Yeah.” Her voice breaks on a whisper. “Yeah, they are.”
And suddenly, she looks… small.
Not weak. Never weak.
But tired. In the way only someone holding everyone else together gets tired.
So I shift the conversation. I pivot like my life depends on it.
“Guess who’s almost one?” I ask, a grin tugging at my lips.
Reese blinks, caught off guard. “Eli?”
“Eli,” I confirm. “I saw the post. He’s got two teeth now, right? And that mohawk curl that will not quit?”
Reese’s whole face lights up.
“Yes!” she laughs. “He looks like a baby rock star. He smacked Thorin in the face with his rattle yesterday and didn’t even blink.”
I laugh with her, picturing it.
“I’ve already started planning his party,” she continues, energy rising with every word. “I’m talking balloon arches, smash cake, a bubble machine, tiny leather jackets for the theme. I might be unwell.”
I smile so hard it aches.
There it is. That spark. That fire.
Reese, rising.
“Unwell is exactly what makes it iconic,” I tease. “Eli deserves a first birthday that lives in Pinterest infamy.”
We talk a little longer—about cake flavors and party playlists and whether or not Thorin can be trusted with a glue gun (he cannot)—until the edges of Reese’s exhaustion start to soften.
When we finally say goodnight, I’m reminded of something she once said on one of her YouTube videos.
“Some people heal by holding on. Others heal by letting go. But most of us? We just figure out how to breathe while we’re breaking.”
So I breathe.
And I let myself break—just a little. Quietly. Alone.
And then I tuck my hand beneath the curve of my belly, whisper to the life inside me,
“You’re already so loved, even when everything feels like it’s unraveling.”
I must drift off for a while—lulled to sleep by the weight of exhaustion and the rhythmic pulse of Kingston’s cologne still lingering on the sheets like a secret I never want to forget. I moved into his bedroom when we decided to give this thing between us—this new thing borne of something from the past—a try.
But the soft click of the front door pulls me back, slow and syrupy, like coming out of a dream I wasn’t ready to leave. I blink up at the ceiling, disoriented for a beat, the shadows stretching long and familiar across the penthouse walls.
Footsteps. Heavy, purposeful. Kingston.
My lips curve without permission. I push myself up, bones creaky from sleeping funny, and pad into the hallway, bare feet brushing the cool floor.
He’s standing in the entryway, mid-motion, one shoe off, the other half-committed. His shoulders are slouched, like the night’s weight is finally easing off him, and his hair’s a little damp at the nape, curling from being wet. My heart stutters.
He looks up, and when his eyes meet mine, he gives me that smile. The one that melts the marrow right out of my bones.
“There’s my girl,” he says, soft and rough and warm all at once. He opens his arms without asking, and I go—like gravity, like instinct.
His body’s solid against mine, arms wrapping around me in a way that makes everything else fade out. My cheek presses to his chest, and the steady thud of his heart grounds me better than any deep-breathing exercise ever could.
“You’re home,” I murmur, burying my nose in the collar of his hoodie.
“Yeah.” He exhales against the top of my head. “Game was brutal.”
I tilt back just enough to look up at him. “But you won?”
He nods, tired pride tugging at his mouth. “Barely. But a win’s a win.”
“You should be sleeping,” I say, tracing the edge of his jaw with my fingertip. He hasn’t shaved in two days and I like the feel of the stubble.
He kisses my temple. “So should you.”
“I wasn’t out long,” I admit. “I spoke to Reese before bed.”
At that, his brow lifts with that slow-building curiosity that always precedes a protective spiral.
“She’s okay,” I add quickly. “Just stressed. The studio’s a mess. Fletch is…” I trail off. Complicated. Imploding. A whole other conversation.
Kingston hums, brushing a strand of hair off my face, but doesn’t press. Instead, he shifts slightly and reaches for something behind him.
“Oh,” he says, like he forgot until right this second, and holds out a small white gift bag with navy tissue paper puffing out of the top like whipped cream. “I saw these and couldn’t help myself.”
I take it, curiosity piqued. The tissue crinkles beneath my fingers as I dig through it and pull out not one but two teeny-tiny onesies.
My throat catches.
They’re navy blue with bold white lettering stretched across the chest—New York Giants. Each one has a miniature football stitched just above the team logo. They’re also soft to the touch.
“Are you kidding me?” I laugh, breathless and giddy, and stupidly emotional. “You got them matching onesies?”
He shrugs, sheepish and smug all at once. “Couldn’t decide which one I liked more, so I got both. You know… in case they have opinions.”
“They’re the size of cinnamon rolls, Kingston.” I hold one up, marveling at how impossibly small it is. “They can’t even hold their own heads yet.”
“Still counts,” he says, tugging me closer again. “It’s their first merch. Gotta start early.”
“You’re such a dork,” I whisper against his chest, already picturing the babies in them. My heart does this weird, fluttery somersault that leaves me breathless.
“And you love it,” he murmurs.
I do. God, I do.
I press the onesies to my chest and lean into him again, trying to memorize the shape of this moment. The heat of him. The ease. The knowing look in his eyes that says I bought these because I wanted to picture our kids wearing them.
Because I think he did.
And just like that, the unraveling doesn’t feel so scary anymore. Not with him here. Not with these tiny reminders that something beautiful is coming—whether I’m ready or not.
We’re building something.
Something stitched together from second chances and softened scars, from whispered promises and the quiet kind of love that grows in the cracks where everything once broke.
I hold up the matching onesies, the navy fabric comically small in my hands, and arch a brow at Kingston. “So… Giants blue, huh?”
He gives me that cocky half-smile—the one that makes it really hard to remember I’m supposed to be exhausted and emotionally fried. “Damn right.”
I smirk. “What if they’re not into football?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Then they’ll still be the best-dressed babies on the block.”
I snort. “In football gear?”
He steps closer, plucking one of the onesies from my hands and holding it up like it’s a championship trophy. “They’re gonna be in my team colors either way. Doesn’t matter if they come out in sparkly tutus or superhero capes. These babies?”—he taps the tiny logo on the chest—“are part of my backup squad now.”
The warmth in my chest threatens to split me wide open.
They’re not his. Not biologically. Not by blood or DNA or any of the labels people like to use. But the way he says it—my backup squad—you’d think they were written in his bones.
“You do know how this works, right?” I ask, lifting a brow, teasing just to keep from crying. “You’re not the one growing them.”
He rests a hand on my bump and grins. “Yeah, but I’m still on the team. And every team needs a starting lineup and a bench. These babies? First draft picks. I’m just making sure they’re suited up.”
God, he’s ridiculous.
And maybe kind of perfect.
I shake my head, laughing under my breath. “You’re gonna be insufferable.”
He kisses my forehead, his palm still warm on my belly. “You wouldn’t want me any other way.”
He’s not wrong.
* * *
It’s a little after noon when we step back out onto Fifth Avenue, the wind snapping my coat open like it knows how much I spent on the damn blowout this morning. But even New York’s sass can’t touch me right now—not with Kingston’s hand in mine and a folded piece of paper in my purse that makes everything feel a little more real.
Two boys.
I glance up at him, heart doing that weightless thing it’s been doing ever since the ultrasound tech turned the screen toward us and made everything shift.
“God help us,” I murmur as we approach the curb.
“What’s that?” Kingston asks, glancing sideways, breath clouding in the crisp air.
I flash him a grin. “Just thinking about our future defensive line.”
He laughs, that warm, honey-smooth sound that manages to cut through even the chaos of the city. “Back-up squad, baby. We’re gonna have the most stacked peewee roster in the state.”
We duck into the waiting town car, and before I can fully process the silence of the backseat, Kingston reaches for my hand again. His thumb glides over my knuckles like it’s second nature. “You doing okay?”
“Better than okay,” I admit. “A little stunned. I was convinced we’d get a curveball.”
He smirks. “Doesn’t matter what position they play. They’re already part of the team.”
My mind flickers to the matching blue-and-white onesies he gave me last night—the ones folded neatly in tissue paper at the bottom of our closet. Tucked beside a baby blanket and whatever shred of composure I had left.
“I guess it’s a good thing you didn’t go for pink,” I tease, nudging his knee.
Kingston shrugs, all effortless charm. “I would’ve made it look tough.”
“You make everything look tough.”
We share a look, thick with that low hum of wonder that hasn’t stopped vibrating in my chest since the appointment. This is happening. Me and Kingston. A family.
The word still feels brand new in my mouth.
To celebrate, he takes me to the one place I’ve always wanted to go but never made time for: the Blue Box Café. It’s dreamy and posh and practically purrs elegance when we step off the elevator at Tiffany’s. The kind of place that smells like money and butter and still feels like magic.
A hostess greets us like we’ve been expected all along, and within minutes, we’re tucked into a robin’s egg blue booth, sipping mocktails. I cradle my belly with both hands as I scan the brunch menu, even though I already know I’m ordering the smoked salmon and bagel tower. It’s indulgent. Classic. Exactly what this moment deserves.
“I can’t believe you remembered this place,” I murmur, trying not to cry because hormones are rude and my eyeliner is very much not waterproof.
Kingston leans in, brushing his lips against my temple. “I remember everything you’ve ever said when you didn’t think I was listening.”
My heart squeezes. Hard.
He’s grinning like he just won the Super Bowl and got handed a lifetime supply of Oreos. I, on the other hand, am sitting across from him trying not to spiral in the middle of a Tiffany-blue dream.
The café glimmers around us—white marble, pastel walls, velvet seats so plush they feel like a safety net. I twirl the straw in my overpriced lavender lemonade, watching him as he picks at a croissant like it might fight back.
“I can’t believe it,” I whisper. “This life. These babies. You.”
Kingston leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes locked on mine. “My back-up squad,” he says, voice low and gravelly, the kind that knocks the air out of my lungs.
My lips twitch. “You mean your full-on starting lineup.”
He grins. “Exactly. Training starts the minute they can sit up without face-planting. I’ll be the world’s most intense tee-ball dad.”
I roll my eyes, the gesture fond and familiar. Then my finger finds the edge of my water glass, tracing it slowly as the weight of everything finally catches up.
“Are you still sure about this?”
He pauses mid-bite.
I let the words hang, suspended between us like a wire strung too tight. “About being with me. About this. Now that it’s real. Now that it’s not just an idea, but two actual babies who’ll never share your blood but will still call you Dad. That’s… a lot.”
His brow furrows. “Mya?—”
“I know you said you’re in this,” I continue, the words tumbling out in a rush. “But we were kids when we fell in love. It was easier back then. Easier than now, anyway. Now it’s messy and overwhelming and terrifying. And they’re not even here yet and I already feel like I’m screwing everything up.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. He just reaches for my hand, lacing our fingers together on the table, anchoring me.
“Hey,” he says gently. “You’re not screwing anything up. You’re building something new from the ground up—and that’s brave as hell.”
I blink hard, trying to shove the tears back into their ducts.
“And yeah, it’s messy,” he adds. “But I want the mess. I want you. And those babies? They’re mine. Maybe not in the way biology defines it. But biology doesn’t make a dad. Love does.”
My chest aches, full to the brim.
For a flicker of a second, I think about Fletch. About how he didn’t even respond to the notice about terminating his rights. Didn’t call. Didn’t fight. Didn’t care.
But Kingston? He’s here. He’s all in.
I squeeze his hand tighter, the words catching in my throat. “They’re going to inherit your ridiculous obsession with team spirit.”
He grins. “Damn right. They’ll be in Giants jerseys before they can crawl.”
I let out a soft laugh. “And if they hate football?”
“They’ll still be wearing the colors,” he says, winking. “And I’ll teach them to body-check anyone who breaks their hearts.”
A watery laugh escapes me, the kind that tastes like hope.
And in that moment, with sunlight pouring through the windows and Kingston watching me like I’m the only thing that matters, I believe him.
We didn’t plan this.
But maybe—just maybe—we were always meant to end up here.