Chapter 55 #2
“Yeah,” I whisper. “She’s good.”
Callaway’s palm drifts lower, but he doesn’t touch yet. He pauses right at the edge of my belly, eyes lifting to mine like even now—especially now—he won’t take anything from me without permission. My hormones, traitors that they are, decide this is the sweetest thing on earth and I almost lose it.
I nod.
Relief hits his face so hard it steals the air from his smile.
He settles his hand there, warm and broad, covering us like he can protect her with skin and willpower alone.
His expression goes soft in a way that makes me feel exposed, adored, and almost unbearably safe all at once—as if I’m the only thing he can see, and he’s not even trying to hide it.
“She’s gonna be so loved.”
“Or so annoyed,” I say, because if I let myself feel the full scope of that sentence, I might dissolve. “She’s going to come out rolling her eyes because her dads, her uncles, her grandfather—everyone—will be watching her breathe.”
Callaway’s grin turns feral. “Good. She should know she’s protected.”
Monty’s voice is low, almost rough. “No one touches what’s ours.”
My pulse trips.
“Okay, possessive much?”
Callaway doesn’t even blink. “Yes.”
Monty’s mouth curves, faint and lethal. “You like it.”
I open my mouth, then shut it, because my body answers before my pride can. Heat pools low, immediate, traitorous. My skin remembers them. Remembers hands and mouths and the way they look at me like I’m both comfort and obsession.
I clear my throat, because I’m not about to let them win this round. “Anyway. Since we’re all pretending we’re emotionally stable adults . . . have we decided where we’re traveling this summer?”
Callaway’s face shifts into business mode so fast it’s almost funny. Almost. He looks at Monty, and Monty gives a small nod.
“We decided on a few safe places,” Callaway says. “None of those where you need a thousand shots to not die. We have to think about our little girl.”
“I love how you say that like you’re the one carrying her.”
His arm tightens again. “I would if I could.”
“We can do the rest of the places later,” he says. “When you’re not pregnant.”
I snort. “You say that like you plan to knock me up again.”
Callaway’s gaze flashes to Monty, and the look he gives him is so blatant it should come with a warning label. Jealous and amused and hungry all at once.
Monty shrugs, completely unbothered. “We have to discuss it in therapy,” he says, as if that makes it reasonable. Then his hand slides to my stomach—gentle, but with that demanding certainty behind it. “But I do want a second one . . . soon.”
My breath catches anyway. Not because he touched my belly—because he touched it like a promise.
And my body, rude traitor that it is, responds. A pulse of wanting rolls through me, lightning-fast. The press of Monty’s body against my legs shifts, and I feel the proof of him—his need, his restraint, his control cracking at the edges.
Callaway notices, because of course he does. His eyes darken. His hand spreads across my stomach like he’s claiming space, like he doesn’t like sharing my reactions even though he has to.
I hate how much I love that.
I force my voice back into brightness, because if I don’t, I’ll end up on my knees between them and we will absolutely not be finalizing any travel plans.
“We are not having a second baby soon. I can barely keep a houseplant alive. I watered one cactus too much and it died. A cactus. That’s practically an immortal plant and I killed it. ”
Callaway laughs, but it comes out rough, like it’s half relief, half desperation to hear something normal. “You’re doing fine.”
“You say that now. Wait until I’m crying because a commercial plays a sad piano chord.”
Monty’s gaze doesn’t leave my face. “You can cry,” he says simply. “You can do whatever you need.”
That tenderness makes my eyes sting again. I blink hard, because I refuse to be defeated by my own emotions on a Tuesday night.
I point at them. “Are you two helping Dad? Camp starts soon.”
Callaway’s face brightens a little, because he loves a plan, loves a job, loves being useful. Then he shakes his head. “Nah. Creed and Luther will be in charge this year. We’ve got plenty of player volunteers.”
Monty nods once. “We’ll be enjoying us.”
There’s something in the way he says it—us—that lands like a hand around my waist. Not gentle. Not careful. Not asking.
Callaway shifts closer, his mouth near my ear. “We’re gonna take care of you,” he murmurs, and the warmth of his breath makes my skin go sensitive, “all summer and plan trips, and . . . be everything you need.”
Monty’s hand stays on my stomach. His thumb moves once—slow, reverent—like he’s writing something into my skin that he expects the universe to respect.
“You’re not doing this alone,” he says, so low it feels like it’s meant for the space between my ribs. “Not for a second.”
My eyes sting, because of course they do. Because apparently my hormones have turned me into a walking public service announcement about feelings.
“I love you,” I say anyway, because if I don’t say it now, I’ll spend the next ten years regretting it in the shower like a sad little goblin. “Both of you.”
Callaway goes still like I’ve just given him a medal he never thought he’d earn. His gaze slides over my face, my mouth, my belly—like he wants to keep me in his sight forever, just in case.
Then he leans in and kisses me.
It’s a kiss that says, I’m here. I’m staying. I don’t know how to do this gently all the time, but I will learn for you.
“I love you,” he murmurs against my lips, voice breaking on the words like they matter too much to be easy. “I love you so much, Ves.”
My laugh comes out damp and ridiculous. “Okay, wow. We’re doing this. We’re just . . . saying things.”
“Yeah,” Callaway says, like it’s obvious. Like he’s been waiting forever for permission to say it out loud. His hand spreads a little over my side, possessive without apology. “We’re doing it.”
Monty touches me like a man who’s decided I’m his. His hand slides up, not taking over, just joining mine—his fingers threading with mine over my belly like we’re both holding the same miracle because neither of us trusts the world to be gentle.
“I love you,” he says.
It comes out rougher than Callaway’s, like it had to scrape its way past pride and old instincts and whatever part of him still believes love is a risk you don’t survive.
Then he tips my chin up with two fingers, demanding in the way only Monty can be—even when he’s tender—and he kisses me like a vow.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine for a beat. His breath is warm. His eyes are intense, almost too much, like if I look away I’ll miss something important.
Callaway leans in and presses a kiss to my cheek, then the corner of my mouth, then my temple—like he can’t stop himself, like affection pours out of him and he’s done trying to contain it.
I turn my head and catch his lips again, quick this time, a little smile in it because I’m still me. Still sarcastic, still allergic to letting a moment be too perfect.
Callaway doesn’t even hesitate. “I love you.”
Then he looks at Monty, bold as hell, like he’s learned he doesn’t have to ask for space in this family.
“And I love you too,” Callaway adds, softer, aimed at him. “So fucking much.”
Monty’s eyes narrow like he’s not used to being loved like that—openly, without conditions—but he doesn’t reject it. He doesn’t back away.
He just lifts his chin a fraction and says, “Love you too.”
Callaway grins, pleased and smug and ridiculously pretty about it, and I hate him for making my heart do dumb things.
Then, my stomach gives a strange little flutter. Low. Subtle.
My whole body goes still. Because something inside me just answered.
My hand flies to my belly, right next to Monty’s. “Did you feel that?”
Monty’s gaze drops instantly. Every part of him focuses there, like the world outside our couch has stopped existing.
Callaway notices my face and goes alert in a different way—protective, ready. “What? What is it?”
I stare down at my stomach like my body has just betrayed me into tenderness and I’m not sure whether to laugh, cry, or text my therapist.
“I think—” My voice comes out tiny. “I think that was her.”
Monty’s hand presses flatter, not hard, just present. Like he’s trying to be close enough for her to know him.
“Again,” he says, like he’s negotiating with the universe.
Callaway shifts closer, eyes wide, wonder all over his face. “Baby? That was—was that you?”
I let out a watery laugh. “Maybe she’s saying ‘I love you’ too.”
Monty’s thumb strokes once over my skin, and his voice drops into something almost broken with reverence. “Hi,” he says to my belly. “Hi, sweetheart. We love you so much.”
Something in me cracks clean open.
Callaway bends down—careful, like I’m fragile even though I’m not—and kisses my stomach, right where our hands overlap. It’s the gentlest thing in the world, and still it hits like a punch.
“I love you,” he whispers there.
Monty leans in and kisses my knuckles where they rest against my skin, like he can’t kiss her yet so he kisses the part of me that’s holding her.
Then his mouth finds mine again—brief, fierce, tender all at once.
“Always,” he says against my lips.
Callaway’s hand slides up to cup the side of my face, his forehead brushing mine. “Always,” he repeats, like he’s making the word real by saying it.
And I’m still frozen, hand on my belly, waiting like an idiot for another flutter—like I can summon it with pure devotion and panic.
Monty’s eyes lift to mine, and there’s something helplessly soft there that makes my lungs forget how to work for a second.
“Yeah,” he says, voice quiet. Certain. “That was her.”
Callaway kisses my mouth again—slow, worshipful. “We’re going to love you both,” he murmurs, like it’s the simplest truth in the world. “Every day. No breaks.”
I let out a laugh that turns into a sob because I’m ridiculous and happy and scared and full of love I didn’t think I deserved.
And I believe this is us expecting not only a baby to love but to be like this, always. Not alone trying to choose who I can love, but in love with two men who accept me and adore each other too.