31. Eli
Eli
When Killian hands me the key to my new place a week later, I already know he’s going to make some kind of dry, terrible comment, because that’s what Killian does when he’s being quietly massive about something that would make a normal person emotional.
He stands in the gravel path outside the renovated outbuilding with one shoulder leaning against the doorframe, arms folded.
He looks unfairly casual for a man who just took a neglected guest structure at the back of his family property and turned it into a place where my daughter and I can actually live.
Behind him, the building looks almost unreal in the late afternoon light, with a freshly painted exterior, new windows, a cleaned-up stone path, and a small porch with enough room for a chair and probably one of the duck-themed monstrosities the guys keep buying when they think nobody’s watching.
Killian drops the key into my palm, and the weight of it is small enough to piss me off because it shouldn’t feel this heavy.
“There,” he says, voice flat and bored in that way that means he absolutely cares and would rather be killed than admit it normally. “Try not to get sentimental and make it weird.”
Julian stands beside me and snorts under his breath. “You literally renovated a house for him.”
“Loaned,” Killian corrects without missing a beat, eyes flicking to me. “I renovated a house and created a repayment obligation. Extremely cold and businesslike.”
I curl my fingers around the key and look down at it because looking at Killian directly might make my face do something inconvenient. “You’re such an asshole.”
“Correct,” Killian says, then pushes away from the doorframe and nods toward the house. “Mrs. Alvarez has Mila for another hour, and Luca’s keeping Ryan from buying a baby-sized basketball hoop until after dinner, so look around before the idiots invade.”
I glance toward the main house automatically because Mila has become the center of some gravitational system I never planned for but now orbit without question.
Leaving her for even an hour still pulls at me, though she’s inside with Mrs. Alvarez and probably being sung to in Spanish while wearing duck socks.
Julian’s hand brushes the small of my back, brief and grounding, and I realize I’ve gone quiet.
“She’s good,” Julian says softly, his voice lower now that Killian’s already started walking away. “Mrs. Alvarez would murder every single one of us before she let anything happen to Mila.”
“That’s weirdly comforting,” I mutter.
“It should be,” Julian replies, and when I look at him, there’s enough warmth in his face to make my chest do that stupid, dangerous thing it keeps doing around him lately.
We’ve been careful in public, or at least careful by Sin Bin standards, which means everyone probably knows more than we’ve said because this house is full of nosy athletes with emotional surveillance skills they pretend not to have.
But in these small moments, when it’s only us and no one is making jokes to save us from saying something real, Julian looks at me like he’s stopped trying to hide how much he wants this.
With a sigh, I fit the key into the lock, and when I turn it, there's enough silence around us to hear the lock disengage before I push the door open.
The first thing I notice is the smell. Fresh paint, new wood, clean air, something faintly lemony from whatever cleaning product Mrs. Alvarez bullied the contractors into using because she has absolutely been here already.
The entry opens into a small living space with new floors and soft cream walls, the windows uncovered for now, so the afternoon light spills over everything.
It isn’t huge, but it isn’t cramped either.
There’s space for a couch, a little dining table, bookshelves, toys eventually, maybe a soft rug where Mila can learn to crawl while half the Sin Bin sits around pretending they aren’t tearing up about it.
The kitchen is tucked off to one side, compact but new, with pale cabinets and a counter that’s already making me imagine bottles drying by the sink and coffee brewing while Mila screams at dawn since she’s personally offended by mornings.
I step inside slowly, and Julian comes in behind me and shuts the door. The click sounds final in a different way from the front door of the main house. Not shutting the world out exactly, just claiming a pocket of it.
“Fuck,” I breathe before I can stop myself.
Julian stays close but doesn’t crowd me. “Yeah.”
I walk farther in, hand trailing over the back of the little island. “This is insane.”
“You say that every time someone helps you.”
“That’s because all of you help in insane ways,” I say, glancing back at him. “Normal people bring casseroles or send a gift card. Killian builds a fucking residence.”
Julian’s mouth tilts. “To be fair, the residence was already here. Killian just made it livable for you and Mila.”
I keep walking because standing still might make the emotion catch up with me too quickly, and I’m not ready to do that in front of bare walls and Julian’s too-knowing eyes.
The bedroom is simple and bright, big enough for a bed, a dresser, and Mila’s cot for the first stretch if I decide I’m not ready for her across the hall yet. The bathroom has fresh tiles and a tub, which makes me think of rubber ducks immediately.
The laundry nook is small, with a washer and dryer for Mila’s tiny clothes. A shelf for detergent. A normal, boring, necessary thing tucked into a home that exists because everyone around me decided my daughter mattered enough to plan around.
I swallow hard and say, “I’m going to owe him forever.”
Julian steps up beside me in the little hall, shoulder brushing mine. “Yeah, financially, according to the official King family loan shark agreement.”
I huff and look at him. “I’m serious.”
“So am I,” he says, but his voice softens. “You’ll pay him back when you can because that’s the deal he gave you so you’d take it. But you don’t owe him your shame, Eli. He didn’t do this to make you feel smaller.”
He finds the bruise so easily.
I look toward the room at the end of the hall because if I keep looking at him, I’m going to kiss him in the laundry nook like a cliché with poor impulse control. “You’re annoyingly good at saying things that make me want to argue and then realizing I can’t.”
Julian leans closer, and I feel the warmth of his breath near my ear before he says, “That’s because I’m wise, Liefling.”
I turn my head to glare at him, which is a mistake because his face is right there—hazel eyes warm and mouth tipped into that little grin I love.
“Stop weaponizing Afrikaans at me,” I tell him.
His grin widens. “You like it.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to,” Julian says, and before I can come up with a decent answer, he steps past me toward the last room. “Come look at the nursery before you pretend you aren’t blushing.”
“I’m not blushing,” I mutter, following him.
“You absolutely are.”
The nursery is empty, but it already feels like the center of the place.
The room gets softer light than the others, filtered through the trees outside the window.
Someone has taped paint swatches to one wall: pale yellow, soft green, warm ivory, and a ridiculous duck-themed wallpaper sample that I know in my bones Ryan had something to do with.
There’s a new ceiling fan, a closet with shelves already installed, and a wide wall that would fit the crib perfectly once we move it over. It isn’t finished yet, but that’s the point. It’s waiting.
I try to imagine Mila here. Safe and wanted. Surrounded by too many uncles and a nanny who runs the house more effectively than Killian does. A future tries to form in my head, and for once it doesn’t feel like punishment.
Julian is quiet for a long moment before he says, “This weekend?”
I glance at him. “For painting?”
“Yeah.” He nods toward the swatches. “We can get primer Friday, paint Saturday, second coat Sunday if it needs it. Maybe keep the duck cult to accents so Mila doesn’t grow up thinking she was raised in a pond.”
I laugh softly and step into the room, brushing a finger over the yellow swatch. “I kind of like this one.”
“Of course you do.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Julian leans against the doorframe, arms folded, eyes on me instead of the wall. “It’s sweet.”
I roll my eyes because the warmth in his voice makes me feel exposed. “It’s paint.”
“It’s still sweet.”
“You have very strong opinions for someone who decorated his room like a tattooed monk with a gym bag.”
“My room has character.”
“Your room has laundry in three separate categories.”
His mouth curves slowly. “You spending a lot of time thinking about my bedroom, Eli?”
The question is so smooth and so blatantly meant to mess with me that my brain trips over itself. I turn toward him too fast and immediately regret it because he’s still leaning there and watching me get flustered.
“I’ve been in your room,” I say, which sounds weak even to me.
“You’ve slept in my bed,” Julian says, voice lower now, still casual enough that it could be a joke if his eyes weren’t doing that dark, focused thing. “That’s a little more specific.”
Heat climbs my neck. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” Julian asks, pushing off the doorframe and stepping into the room.
“That.”
He takes another step, placing the baby monitor on the dresser, and I hold my ground, even though every instinct in my body has noticed the distance shrinking and started sending up flares.
“You’re going to need to be more specific, Liefling,” Julian says, his voice warm and rough. “I’m not sure which thing is bothering you.”
I hate him. I don’t hate him even a little.
“The flirting,” I say, and it comes out more breathless than I’d planned.
Julian’s eyebrows lift. “You want me to stop?”
That should be an easy question. The answer is no, obviously. The answer is absolutely fucking not. But my mouth has apparently decided to become useless at the exact worst moment, so I just stare at him while he comes another step closer.