31. Pierce
PIERCE
I stood in the nursery and stared at the wall.
The room was finished. Everything I'd built by hand over those three weeks, two months ago, was exactly where it needed to be — the crib Hannah had picked out from her planning papers assembled and positioned against the far wall, the reading corner in the spot she'd marked on her floor diagram, the bookshelf I'd constructed from scratch arranged with the picture books she'd listed in the margins of her research.
Every single detail in this room followed what she'd written down before I'd dismissed it all as unnecessary overthinking.
God, what if she hated it?
The thought sat in my chest like a stone.
I'd rebuilt the entire nursery from the ground up after I found her planning papers on the nursery windowsill behind the curtain, worked through the night more times than I could count, skipped meetings and delegated calls and learned how to build something from nothing.
And now I was standing here like a complete idiot, afraid she'd walk in and tell me I'd gotten it wrong.
She'd put so much thought into this space.
So much careful planning and consideration for every detail, from the way the light hit the rocking chair to the height of the shelves to the soft green she wanted for the walls.
And I'd waved her off when she tried to talk to me about any of it, told her we could hire someone to handle the room, told her it didn't need to be complicated.
I'd been such an ass.
My hands were shaking. I shoved them in my pockets and took a breath, trying to get a grip on the nerves that had been crawling under my skin all morning.
This shouldn't be harder than a boardroom full of hostile investors or a negotiation with a competitor who wanted my blood.
But somehow it was, because none of those things mattered the way this did.
I heard the front door open downstairs.
Hannah was home, back from Julia's to stay.
My pulse kicked up immediately, adrenaline flooding my system in a way that had nothing to do with business and everything to do with the woman I'd nearly lost. I stepped out of the nursery and closed the door behind me, my throat tight as I headed for the stairs.
She was in the entryway, setting her bag down on the side table. When she looked up and saw me, she smiled — warm and genuine and absolutely devastating — and I felt my chest tighten with how much I didn't deserve her.
"Hey," she said.
"Hey." I came down the stairs, trying to look calmer than I felt. "How was your appointment?"
"Good. Dr. Warren says everything looks perfect." Her hand moved to her stomach automatically, the gesture so familiar now I couldn't remember a time when she hadn't been carrying our child. "She thinks it'll be any day now."
Any day. Jesus Christ.
I nodded, my brain simultaneously thrilled and terrified by that information. "That's good. That's… good."
Hannah's eyebrows lifted slightly, amusement flickering in her eyes. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Fine." I was absolutely not fine. "There's something I want to show you."
"Oh?"
"Upstairs." I held out my hand, and when she took it, her fingers warm in mine, I had to resist the urge to hold on too tight.
She followed me up the stairs and down the hallway, asking me questions I deflected with vague non-answers until we reached the nursery door. I'd kept it closed for two months, ever since I'd finished the last details, and now my heart was hammering against my ribs as I reached for the handle.
Don't explain it. Just let her see it.
I opened the door and stepped aside.
Hannah walked in slowly, her gaze sweeping across the room in one long, careful look.
She didn't say anything at first, just stood there in the center of the space and turned in a slow circle, taking in every detail.
The crib with its soft gray bedding and the mobile hanging overhead.
The rocking chair in the corner she'd marked with a star.
The reading corner with its floor cushions in the spot where the morning light came in best. The bookshelf loaded with picture books, their spines arranged exactly the way she'd noted she wanted them.
I stayed in the doorway, watching her face, trying to read her reaction.
She crossed to the bookshelf first and ran her fingers along the spines, her touch gentle. "Pierce." Her voice was quiet, almost wondering. "These are the exact books I listed."
I didn't say anything. My throat felt too tight to trust my voice.
She pulled one out — a worn copy of a story about a bear and a chair — and stared at the cover. "I wrote this down months ago. I didn't think…" She trailed off, setting the book back carefully before moving to the crib.
She crossed to the crib and ran her hand along its rounded edge, then slid open the drawer underneath. She looked at it for a long moment. Her fingers traced the wood, the smooth sanded corners, and I saw the exact moment she realized I'd built the room around her notes, every last one.
She moved to the closet next and opened the door, revealing the shelving system I'd built from scratch based on a diagram she'd drawn on the back of an old envelope.
Every shelf was positioned exactly where she'd marked it, every measurement precise to the quarter inch.
I'd found that envelope tucked into her planning folder, the edges worn soft like she'd carried it around in her pocket for weeks while she thought through the design.
"Oh my God." Her hand went to her mouth. "You read everything."
It wasn't a question, but I answered anyway. "Every word you wrote."
"Even the notes I made to myself?"
"Especially those." I shifted my weight, uncomfortable with how exposed this felt.
She looked at the bookshelf, then at the crib, tracing the line between them with her eyes. "It's angled so the baby can see it from the crib. I wrote that in one margin and never said it out loud." Her gaze moved to the corner. "And the chair is right where I drew the star."
Her hand dropped from her mouth to her chest, fingers splayed over her heart like she was trying to hold something in.
She looked around the room again, slower this time, and I knew she was seeing all of it now — every detail I'd pulled from her careful planning, every small thing she'd thought about and researched and probably assumed I'd never paid attention to.
"I love it," she said finally, and her voice broke on the words. "Pierce, it's absolutely perfect."
The relief hit me like a physical force, draining the tension from my shoulders all at once. I had to brace myself against the doorframe to stay steady. "You're sure? If there's anything you want changed?—"
"I don't want anything changed." She crossed the room to me, moving carefully around her stomach, and when she reached up to touch my face, I caught her hand and held it there against my jaw. "How did you do all this? When did you even have time to build furniture?"
I shook my head. "Doesn't matter."
"It matters to me, Pierce."
"Hannah." I pulled her closer, as close as I could get with her belly between us, and tried to find words that wouldn't crack me open completely. "I just wanted you to have what you'd planned for."
She studied my face, her eyes searching mine, and whatever she found there made her expression soften into something that hurt to look at. "You built all of this yourself. With your own hands."
I didn't confirm or deny it, just pressed my forehead to hers and breathed her in — the scent of her shampoo and the lotion she used and something underneath that was just Hannah.
"Thank you," she whispered, and I felt the words against my skin.
We stood like that for a long moment, her hand caught between both of mine, the nursery around us holding everything she'd hoped for and everything I'd failed to give her the first time.
I'd spent weeks terrified she'd walk in here and see all the ways I'd misunderstood her plans, all the ways I'd gotten the details wrong despite trying so damn hard to follow her notes exactly.
But she was looking at me like I'd handed her something precious, something irreplaceable.
Maybe I had.
"Come on," I said eventually, my voice rough. "You should rest."
"I'm not tired, Pierce."
"Humor me anyway."
She rolled her eyes but let me guide her back downstairs, settling onto the couch while I grabbed her a glass of water and then hovered nearby like the overprotective idiot I'd apparently become.
Hannah lasted about an hour before her hand shot out and grabbed my wrist, her grip sudden and tight enough to make me spill the water I was holding.
"What?" I was already moving, scanning her face for signs of pain or distress. "What's wrong?"
"I think..." She took a careful breath, her other hand moving to her stomach. "I think it's starting."
My brain went completely blank for a second. "Starting. You mean the baby. Labor."
"Yeah." Her voice was calmer than mine, but I saw the worry flickering in her eyes. "Dr. Warren said it could be any time now. I'm just… I'm worried something's wrong with the baby, Pierce."
I was on my feet before she finished the sentence, my phone already in my hand. "We're going to the hospital. Now."
"It might be false labor?—"
"I don't care if it might be false labor or real labor or any other kind of labor." I helped her stand, one arm around her waist to steady her, my heart racing. "You're worried, so we're not taking any chances. I'm not gambling with you or the baby."
She looked up at me, and something in her expression shifted. "Okay."
I drove us myself, both hands tight on the wheel except when I reached over to hold hers through the contractions that were coming faster now.
Every red light felt like a personal attack, every car in front of us an obstacle I wanted to physically remove.
But I got us to Riverside Hospital without breaking too many traffic laws, checked her in, and stayed right beside her as they got her settled in a private room.
My phone stayed quiet in my pocket. Carter was fielding everything, and I knew it, and nothing came through.
Her grip tightened on my hand as another contraction rolled through.
I stayed.
Through every hour that followed, through every contraction that made her squeeze my hand hard enough to bruise, through every moment she needed me there, I stayed.
"You're doing so good," I told Hannah as the hours stretched into evening, my voice rough from talking her through each wave. "So damn good, Hannah. You're amazing."
She made a sound that might have been a laugh or a sob. "Don't you dare leave this room."
"I'm not going anywhere." I leaned closer, my forehead nearly touching hers. "Wild horses couldn't drag me out of here."
"Good."
And I didn't leave. Not when the nurses came and went, not when the doctor checked her progress, not when the contractions got closer together and Hannah's grip on my hand turned vice-like.
I stayed through all of it, whispering encouragement I barely remembered afterward, holding her hand and letting her hold onto me like I was the only solid thing in the world.
When the baby finally came — small and screaming and covered in vernix and absolutely perfect in every impossible way — the nurse cleaned the tiny body quickly and then placed the warm weight of my child directly into my arms.
Everything else disappeared.
I stared down at the miniature face, all scrunched up and red from crying, at the tiny hands curled into furious fists, at the chest rising and falling with brand new breaths. Something cracked wide open in my chest, something I didn't have words for and probably never would.
"Pierce?" Hannah's voice, exhausted but steady.
I looked at her — sweaty and pale and smiling at me from the hospital bed — and then back down at our baby, and felt the full weight of what we'd made together settle into my bones.
"We did it," Hannah whispered, reaching out to touch the baby's head with gentle fingers.
I couldn't speak. My throat had closed up completely, my eyes burning as I looked down at this impossibly small person who was half me and half the woman I loved more than I'd ever thought I could love anyone.
Our child.
Our family.
I managed a nod, then carefully shifted closer to Hannah's bedside so she could see better, so we could both look down at the face of the tiny human we'd created together.
"Yeah," I finally said, my voice barely working around the lump in my throat. "We did."