Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
MYA
T he second I open the penthouse door and see Reese’s face, I forget how tired I am. She screams before I can say anything, and then we’re hugging and laughing and swaying like two drunk girls in a rom-com montage.
“You’re glowing,” she accuses, yanking back to inspect me, her palms still clamped to my shoulders. “It’s not even fair. You’re supposed to look exhausted.”
“I am exhausted,” I groan, then grin. “I just have a good concealer and a boyfriend who feeds me carbs.”
Reese smirks. “God, it’s still so weird seeing you with Kingston freaking Maddox. Like, my brain short-circuits every time.”
Before I can answer, another voice breaks through.
“Is this how you greet everyone now, or am I just special?”
I turn, and there he is.
Thorin Decker. All six feet of him, framed in the doorway like a secret I forgot I missed. His dark hair’s pulled into a messy man bun, green eyes bright beneath the scar slashing through his left eyebrow like a comma in the story of who he used to be. He’s broader than I remember. Rougher. Still too good-looking for anyone’s sanity.
My throat tightens. “You made it.”
He grins. “You think I’d skip seeing your stomach try to colonize your entire body?”
I laugh, choking on the emotion that sneaks up like a sucker punch. “You haven’t seen me in three months and that’s your opener?”
He shrugs, crossing the threshold with a duffel slung over his shoulder. “What can I say? I’ve missed you, Squish.”
The nickname melts me, and I smack his chest just hard enough to make a sound. He laughs, then pulls me in for a proper hug, one hand cradling the back of my head like he used to when I cried in parking lots and kitchens and stages we weren’t ready for.
When we finally break apart, Thorin’s eyes dip to my bump.
“Damn,” he whistles low. “You’re really doing this.”
“Apparently,” I say, voice too wobbly to be casual.
Reese claps her hands once. “Okay, enough with the reunion emotions. I need to sit down. My feet are still mad at me for wearing heels through JFK.”
I lead them into the kitchen, the air thick with the scent of basil and garlic and whatever Kingston’s private chef taught me to fake. The pasta’s already tossed in lemon cream, the bread still warm.
“I made dinner,” I announce like it’s some kind of achievement. Because it is. I cooked while managing tour posts and pre-show countdowns with Penelope’s passive-aggressive texts in the background.
Reese hops onto a barstool and eyes the spread. “Look at you, domestic goddess with a marketing hustle. When do you sleep?”
“I don’t,” I mutter. “But hey, the shows are sold out.”
Thorin grabs a beer from the fridge and twists the cap off without breaking eye contact. “I saw. You’ve been killing it.”
“Penelope’s a nightmare,” I say, pouring myself sparkling water before my brain tricks me into grabbing anything stronger. “But she knows her shit.”
Thorin leans against the counter, forearms bare, tattoo ink peeking out from beneath his shirt sleeve. “You look good here,” he says quietly, then clears his throat like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.
Before I can ask what he means, the door opens again.
Kingston walks in, fresh from practice, hair damp and curls unruly beneath his hoodie. His eyes lock on mine, and then scan to Thorin. I see the subtle shift in his posture—nothing threatening, just the quiet awareness of territory and past lives intersecting.
“Hey,” I say, wiping my hands on a dish towel. “Perfect timing. Dinner’s ready.”
He walks straight to me, presses a kiss to my temple like he needs the contact, then turns to Thorin with a polite smile.
“You must be Thorin.”
“Guilty,” Thorin replies, stepping forward and offering his hand. “Thanks for letting us crash here. Place is insane.”
Kingston shakes his hand. “Any friend of Mya’s.”
Reese pipes up from the stool. “Boys, food. Talk later. Mya didn’t make all this so you two could engage in some subtle alpha male staring contest.”
I roll my eyes and start plating. Kingston grabs the garlic bread like it owes him money. Thorin helps Reese pour drinks, the kitchen buzzing with old rhythms and new energy.
While Reese catches me up on Horseshoe Bay gossip—the kind that’s tragic, twisted, or both—Kingston and Thorin move to the living room with their beers, comparing schedules and careers like two men trying to figure out where they overlap without trespassing.
And for once, I don’t feel like I’m stuck in the space between my past and my future.
For once, it all feels okay.
Even if I know it won’t stay that way forever.
By the time the dishes are done and Reese is deep in a giggly FaceTime call with Carson—loudly critiquing his outfit for opening night—I grab a throw blanket and drift toward the terrace. The sliding door’s cracked open just enough to let in the muffled sound of traffic and two low male voices threading through the spring chill.
Thorin and Kingston are standing side by side, facing the skyline. Beers in hand. Body language neutral. The kind of casual that isn’t quite casual—like they’re still figuring out the rules of this new dynamic where they both exist in my life.
I pause in the doorway, arms crossed loosely, my bump stretching the hem of my oversized hoodie.
“You two good out here,” I ask, “or should I bring out sparring gloves and let you settle whatever standoff this is officially?”
Kingston glances over his shoulder, eyes warm. “Just talking.”
Thorin smirks without turning. “Relax, Squish. I’m not here to haze your boyfriend.”
“I’m not squishy,” I argue, even though we both know that’s a lie. “I’m just…overachieving in the belly department.”
Thorin finally looks back at me, grin softening. “You’ve always been an overachiever.”
I roll my eyes and step outside, tugging the blanket tighter around me. “You saying that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Nah,” he says, bumping Kingston lightly with his shoulder. “She’s always been like this. Tough as hell. Even when she was seventeen and thought hot sauce counted as a personality.”
Kingston chuckles, glancing at me like he’s picturing it. “Yeah? Still kind of tracks.”
“I hate both of you,” I mutter, but I’m smiling.
There’s a beat of silence as the wind curls around us, cool and crisp, carrying the faint sound of the city below.
“You’ve got a good setup here,” Thorin says finally, voice quieter now. “Not just the penthouse. The way she looks at you.”
I feel Kingston shift beside me. “I’m the lucky one.”
Thorin nods slowly. “I know.”
He takes a sip of his beer, gaze fixed somewhere in the distance, then adds, “You should know… Mya’s been through enough bullshit to last three lifetimes. But she’s still the most loyal, infuriating, ride-or-die person I’ve ever known. And I’m not just saying that because she once broke a guitar over a guy’s head for calling me a sellout.”
“That guy was a dick,” I mumble.
Kingston laughs under his breath. “Duly noted.”
“She doesn’t need protecting,” Thorin says, angling his head toward him. “But she deserves someone who’d do it anyway.”
Kingston’s voice is steady when he answers. “I would. Every day. With everything I’ve got.”
I blink back the sudden sting in my eyes and press a hand to my bump, just to feel the reassurance of movement. The twins always seem to know when I’m spiraling.
Thorin glances over, green eyes soft. “You’re gonna be a hell of a mom, Squish.”
“You better be practicing your lullaby voice,” I shoot back. “You’re on the hook for at least one Disney duet per kid.”
He smirks. “Only if I get to pick the songs.”
“No Encanto, no Frozen, and absolutely no Moana.”
Thorin groans. “You suck the joy out of life.”
Kingston drapes his arm over my shoulder and kisses the top of my head. “I don’t know. I kinda like this life.”
And standing there—between the guy who’s been my brother through every breakdown and the man who’s becoming home—I realize I do, too.
Even if it still scares the hell out of me.
The guys disappear into the media room with beers and the kind of intense focus usually reserved for Super Bowl plays and playoff-level trash talk. I hear the start-up chime of the PlayStation and someone—probably Fletch—shouting, “I swear to God, if anyone picks Luigi again, I’m flipping this coffee table.”
I grab the leftover tiramisu from the fridge and two spoons like it’s a war offering and motion for Reese to follow me.
“Upstairs?” I whisper.
She nods like I just offered her a ticket to Narnia. “Hell yes. I’ve been pretending I didn’t see Thorin almost crash into the soundbar trying to beat Benji at Mario Kart for fifteen minutes. Get me out of here.”
We sneak into the guest bedroom across from mine—the one with floor-to-ceiling windows and a reading nook so pretty it looks AI-generated—and flop onto the bed like teenagers who snuck out after curfew
“Lock the door,” Reese says, eyeing me. “In case one of them gets the munchies and comes looking for dessert.”
“You mean this?” I lift the container between us like it’s sacred treasure. “You’re welcome.”
Reese swipes a spoonful before I’ve even peeled the plastic back properly. “Okay. So. Talk. Spill. Monologue. Whatever it is you’ve been too busy to say on FaceTime.”
I exhale slowly. The kind of breath that doesn’t really want to leave my lungs. “It’s good,” I start. “The apartment, the work, the bump—Kingston. All of it. But it’s also…”
“Too much,” she finishes softly, like she already knows.
“Some days it feels like I’m killing it,” I admit. “Like I’ve got this whole ‘functioning adult with two humans growing inside her’ thing down. Other days, it feels like the floor drops out the second I stop moving.”
Reese hums in agreement, licking tiramisu off her spoon like it’s gospel. “Welcome to the club. We meet at midnight, wear pajamas, and question every life decision we’ve ever made while pretending we’re totally fine.”
My smile wobbles. “I miss you.”
She nudges my foot with hers. “I’m right here.”
“Not the same.”
“No,” she agrees. “But you needed to go. We both did.”
I nod, throat thick. “I haven’t heard from Fletch.”
There it is—the ache I’ve been ignoring. The one I shoved so far down it only comes up when everything else is still.
Reese doesn’t say anything right away. She just presses the container into my hands and lets me hold it like it might anchor me.
“I think he’s still mad,” I whisper. “And I get it. I left. But part of me hates that he hasn’t even… I don’t know. Checked in? Texted? Asked if I’m okay?”
Reese stretches out beside me, head resting against the headboard. “He’s not mad. He’s… wounded. And scared. He doesn’t know how to reach for you without bleeding all over it.”
I swallow. “I didn’t mean to leave it like that.”
“I know.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “He knows too.”
There’s a beat of silence where I can feel every version of myself spinning out—sister, friend, ghost, survivor. Then Reese says, “But you’re allowed to be okay without him. Even if it hurts.”
I blink back the heat in my eyes and stab my spoon into the tiramisu like it insulted my ancestors.
Reese grins. “Aggressive desserting. I like it.”
“Therapeutic.”
We eat in silence for a minute. The boys’ laughter filters up from downstairs, followed by Fletch yelling, “You absolute menace, Thorin. You camped the red shell?!”
Reese rolls her eyes. “Why are men like this?”
“Genetic chaos and poor impulse control.”
She laughs, loud and unfiltered, and I laugh with her—because if we don’t, the grief might spill out instead.
“You doing okay?” I ask after a beat. “With the launch and the band and the travel and Thorin’s man bun getting tighter every week?”
Reese sighs dramatically. “Honestly? No. But I’m coping. The line’s coming together, Penelope hasn’t threatened to fire me this week, and Thorin remembered to wear deodorant, so I’m calling it a win.”
I grin. “I love you.”
She leans over and bumps her forehead against mine. “Right back at you, Squish.”
* * *
The apartment’s still dark when I wake.
Not city-dark—just dim enough to make the edges of everything feel a little softer. The windows are smudged with early light, the sky outside the color of cold lavender. I sit up slowly, blanket half-slipped to the floor, a sticky spoon and an empty tiramisu container still wedged on the bed beside me.
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.”
He smirks. “I am help. But you’re on your own when she starts talking about matching accessories for the twins.”
“Traitor.”
“You love me.”
I bump his hip with mine. “Yeah, yeah. Even when you steal the last waffle.”
He winks. “That’s how you know it’s real.”