28. Julian
Julian
When we get downstairs the next morning, Mila is awake and glaring at the world in that deeply judgmental way she’s got down already. Eli’s got her tucked over one shoulder while I carry the diaper bag.
The kitchen is quieter than usual when we come in, which tells me the other guys aren’t up yet, because if Ryan and Thorn were conscious, the room would already sound like a sports bar.
Killian is leaning against the island in sweats and a black T-shirt, with a mug of coffee in one hand and that expression on his face that means he’s already had three conversations, solved two problems, and maybe threatened somebody before the rest of us were even awake.
He glances up when we come in, eyes landing on Mila first, then Eli, then me. He notices too much, as always. Usually that’s inconvenient. This morning, I’m mostly just grateful he’s using that power for good instead of evil.
“Sit,” he says to Eli, jerking his chin toward one of the stools at the island. “Before the house wakes up and Ryan starts asking if babies can metabolize pre-workout.”
Eli snorts softly and shifts Mila to a more secure hold before sitting. I stay standing for a second out of habit, then decide I’m too damn tired to pretend I’m not part of this and set the diaper bag down by the island before leaning one hip against the counter beside him.
Killian takes a sip of coffee and watches Eli for one beat too long. “Mara called.”
That gets Eli’s full attention immediately—of course it does.
Every time she calls, something changes, something gets confirmed, or something else gets more complicated.
I see Eli’s shoulders tighten under Mila’s small weight, and I have the ridiculous urge to reach over and put a hand on the back of his neck just to keep him steady.
I don’t. Not with Killian standing there and clocking every molecule in the room.
“What now?” Eli asks.
Killian sets the mug down on the counter. “The court’s going to be looking hard at stability. Not just financially, but the environment too. Where Mila’s living, who’s around her, whether a judge or custody evaluator thinks the situation looks permanent, safe, structured, all that shit.”
Eli goes still, bracing for bad news before it fully lands. “This house is safe.”
“It is,” Killian says calmly. “Everybody who matters in this house knows it. That doesn’t mean a family court judge is going to look at a mansion full of college athletes and think it's an ideal environment for full custody of an infant. Especially not with the reputation the Sin Bin has.”
I don’t even need to look at Eli to know exactly what that hits in him. Pride first, fear second. Then that fast, ugly scramble in his head where everything immediately starts converting to, “What do I need to fix?” and “How impossible is it going to be?”
He shifts Mila higher on his shoulder and glances toward me for the briefest second before looking back at Killian. “Okay,” he says slowly. “So, what am I supposed to do? I can’t magically become thirty with a mortgage.”
“No,” Killian replies, and there’s the tiniest flicker of something dry in his voice, “though I’m sure Liam would help you color-code one if you did.”
Eli doesn’t smile. He’s too deep in it already. Killian sees that and gets to the point. “I’m converting one of the outbuildings on the property.”
I honestly think I misheard him—then I remember I’m dealing with Killian King.
He doesn’t float ideas unless he’s already halfway through executing them.
If he says he’s converting an outbuilding, there are probably contractors already on standby and a spreadsheet somewhere that would make an accountant cry.
Eli blinks at him. “What?”
“The smaller guest place near the back line,” Killian says, as if he’s discussing a new coffee machine instead of casually rearranging someone’s entire future.
“It’s already got plumbing, power, separate access, and enough square footage that Mara thinks it’ll read a hell of a lot better as an independent residence than you and Mila sharing a room in the main house while Ryan tries to teach her how to dribble a basketball. ”
That finally gets a tiny huff out of me, mostly because the mental image is so real it almost hurts. Eli doesn’t laugh. He just stares at Killian with the expression of a man who’s just been handed both salvation and another reason to feel guilty.
“Killian,” he says carefully, and I already know what’s coming next because I know Eli almost as well as I know my own name. “That’s too much.”
There it is.
Killian’s mouth goes flat in exactly the way it does when somebody says something predictable and annoying. “No, it’s not—”
“Yes, it is,” Eli argues, voice tightening. “You’re already doing all this legal stuff for us. I can’t just take a whole fucking place from you because the courts might think the Sin Bin is too chaotic.”
“First of all,” Killian says, folding his arms over his chest, “the Sin Bin is too chaotic.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It’s definitely part of the point.”
I keep my face carefully neutral because I can already see where this is going, and more importantly, I can see that Killian sees it too.
Eli’s pride is up, and his fear is worse.
He hears help and immediately starts translating it into debt he can’t repay, dependency he doesn’t want, proof that his parents were right about him not being able to stand on his own.
He’ll talk himself out of something that could keep Mila safer just because accepting it feels too much like admitting he needs it.
Killian is not about to let that happen. He leans one hip against the island and says, almost lazily, “You’re not getting it for free.”
I can see the way those words stop Eli’s spiral. I almost laugh because it’s such a Killian move that I should’ve seen it coming before he said a word.
“What?” Eli asks again, but this time the resistance in him flickers.
Killian shrugs one shoulder. “When you get drafted, you pay me back.”
I have to bite the inside of my cheek not to smile.
Of course Killian knows Eli would balk at the idea of him helping out again.
So, he takes the charity out of it and replaces it with a debt Eli can live with.
He gives Eli a future version of himself to answer to rather than asking him to accept pure help and sit still under the weight of gratitude.
He makes it practical—transactional enough to accept, human enough to still be love.
Jesus, Killian is a scary motherfucker.
Eli stares at him for a long second. “You serious?”
“As a fucking heart attack.”
“That could be years.”
Killian lifts a brow. “Then I guess I’ll wait years.”
I look down at the counter for a second. Killian’s never been the soft, sentimental one; that’s what makes moments like this hit so much worse. He doesn’t dress up care and love in softer language. He just builds a place for your kid to live and dares you not to take it.
Eli’s throat works. He shifts Mila again and presses his mouth briefly to the top of her head, maybe because she’s there, maybe because he needs one second to hide his face from both of us. When he looks back up, his eyes are bright in that way he hates anybody noticing.
“You’re an asshole,” he says thickly.
Killian nods once. “Correct.”
“This is emotional blackmail.”
“No,” Killian says. “It’s a loan with excellent long-term returns.”
I can’t help it—I laugh. It comes out rough from too little sleep, but it’s real, and Eli cuts a look at me that’s half betrayed and half relieved because now the air has shifted just enough that he can breathe inside it again.
“You’re not helping,” he mutters.
“I am absolutely helping,” I tell him. “You just hate competent people.”
He glares at me, but there’s no real force in it.
The fight’s already going out of him. I can see that too.
He wants to argue, but he also wants Mila to be safe.
He wants something he can point to if the court questions where she lives, something that says stable, separate, cared for, and not temporary.
He knows this fixes a problem that’s been making him quietly sick ever since Mara first hinted at how family court likes to read appearances.
Killian lets the silence work for him before adding, “Mara says it matters, so that’s enough for me.
Separate entrance, proper nursery setup, your own kitchen space, your own living area.
We make it clean and obvious that you’re the custodial parent with a real residence on the property, not a guy crashing with his kid in a mansion. ”
That phrase lands on Eli exactly the way Killian intends. Not to shame him. To tell him the truth in a way he can use.
Eli stares down at Mila in her duck onesie for a second before letting out a slow breath. “How fast?”
Killian’s expression doesn’t change, but the victory is there in the tiny easing of his shoulders. “Fast.”
“That means you already started.”
“Yes.”
I look at him then. “How long have you been planning this?”
Killian picks his mug back up. “Since Mara first mentioned housing optics.”
“That was like four days ago,” Eli says.
Killian sips his coffee. “And?”
Eli just shakes his head in that helpless, disbelieving way he gets when someone out-cares his ability to deflect it. “You’re insane.”
“Also correct.”
Mila makes a little snuffling noise against Eli’s shoulder and starts rooting at his shirt.
It breaks the tension completely because there is no human alive who can hold onto a dramatic moment while a baby starts headbutting them for breakfast. Eli glances down immediately, the instinctive softness in his face washing everything else out for a second.
“She’s hungry,” he murmurs.
“I gathered that,” Killian says dryly. “Unlike her father, she has no hesitation in asking for what she needs.”
Eli shoots him a tired look. “You are on fire this morning, King.”
He shrugs. “I slept.”
That actually gets a proper laugh out of Eli, small but real.
I watch the last of the fight drain out of him with it, and some tight place in me loosens.
He’s going to take the help. Mila’s going to have a place that courts can’t sneer at.
Killian is going to bulldoze whatever stands in the way because that’s how he loves people.
It doesn’t fix the rest, but it fixes this one thing.
Eli reaches for the bottle sitting on the warming tray by the counter—Killian had one ready, the absolute psychopath—and tests it against his wrist before settling Mila into the crook of his arm.
The move is smoother than it used to be.
Less panicked. He still looks a little amazed by himself every time she latches and drinks without complaint.
“Thank you,” he says quietly after a minute, not looking up.
Killian waves it off with the tiniest movement of his mug. “You’ll pay me back.”
Eli’s mouth twitches. “Draw up a contract so I can believe you.”
“I’ll even charge interest if it makes you feel less emotional about it.”
“Fuck off.”
“Now you sound better.”
I lean more fully into the counter beside him and watch Mila drink, one tiny hand opening and closing against Eli’s chest—her signature comfort move now.
The kitchen is still quiet enough that we can hear the little sounds she makes around the bottle, the soft swallow, breath, and settle that have become the background rhythm of our lives without any of us really noticing when it happened.
Morning light is starting to break more cleanly through the big windows over the sink, turning the stone and counters a soft gold instead of gray.
“You know,” I say, because the thought’s been rolling around in my head for a minute now, “the outbuilding thing is probably smart anyway.”
Eli glances at me. “You and Killian tag-teaming me now?”
“Absolutely.” I shrug. “Mila needs something that reads stable on paper. You need something that feels like yours. And before you start, yes, I know the main house is yours too in a way, but that’s not what I mean.”
His expression shifts slightly, softer around the edges.
He knows exactly what I mean. The Sin Bin has been home in every meaningful way since his parents made their choice, but it’s still a shared life.
Shared kitchen. Shared noise. Shared chaos.
Shared people who would all die for Mila and also definitely teach her swear words too early if given the chance.
The outbuilding gives him something separate without taking him away from us. A door he can close. A place to build around his daughter that belongs to him in a new, undeniable way.
“It’ll be good,” I say more quietly. “For both of you.”
He watches me for one second too long, and under the table, his knee brushes mine. The contact is small. It still feels like a declaration.
“Yeah,” he says, and there’s more in it than agreement. “It will.”
Killian, who absolutely notices everything and has the decency to say nothing about it, checks the time on his phone. “Contractor’s coming out at ten. Mara wants photos once the nursery corner’s framed up. Mrs. Alvarez said she’s happy to help organize if needed.”
I blink. “Mrs. Alvarez knows?”
Killian looks at me like I’m stupid. “Mrs. Alvarez knows everything.”
That, honestly, is fair.
Eli shakes his head slowly, feeding Mila and looking half wrecked by gratitude all over again. “This whole house is insane.”
The floor creaks overhead, followed by the sounds of Ryan cranking Taylor Swift’s The Story of Us.
The peace of the morning is about to end.
In another minute, the kitchen will be filled with voices and coffee and questions and all the usual movement of too many people living in one place.
But right here, for this little stretch of time, it’s just us.
Me, Eli, Mila, and Killian in his own grim, terrifying version of family-man mode.
“Sounds like Ryan is in his Speak Now era,” Killian grumbles.
“We should be lucky he got over his Tortured Poets era. I can’t stand Ryan quoting Taylor Swift when he’s mopey,” Eli deadpans.
I look at Eli again while he feeds his daughter in the morning light and think, not for the first time, that love wears some strange fucking shapes.
Sometimes it looks like a man standing in your kitchen telling you he’s building you a home and you can pay him back after the NFL gets done claiming your body for profit.
Sometimes it looks like a duck onesie and a bottle at dawn.
Sometimes it looks like the quiet understanding between two people who’ve been through hell separately and somehow ended up here anyway, side by side at an island while the rest of the house still sleeps.
Eli glances at me again, catches me looking, and gives me the smallest smile over Mila’s head.
I smile back before I can stop myself.
Then Ryan’s voice explodes from the stairs about needing coffee, or he’s going to die in a dramatic and unnecessary way, and the morning becomes the Sin Bin again.