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“Don’t jinx me,” I deadpan. “I’ve got one week left and zero tolerance for hallway births.”

He laughs and strolls off, and then I see him.

Liam.

Hair damp and pushed back, Cyclones shirt clinging to him in all the unfair ways, cheeks flushed with that post-game glow hedoesn’t even realize he’s got. He’s scanning the hall like he’s lost something—and when his eyes land on me, helights up.

No hesitation. No swagger. Just pure, unfiltered joy as he closes the distance in three long strides and drops to his knees in front of me like he was built to.

“Hey,” he says softly, looking up at me like he still can’t believe I’m real.

“Hey,” I breathe, because how the hell do you respond to that kind of look?

His hands come up, gently cupping my belly. Not tentative—justcareful, like he knows exactly who he’s touching. His forehead rests against the curve, and he closes his eyes. Like he’s listening. Or anchoring. Or maybe just catching his breath.

A camera clicks nearby. Then another. I don’t even flinch.

Tomorrow, there’ll be headlines.Cyclones’ Star right wing in Tender Moment with Pregnant Fiancée.Whatever.

Because this isn’t for them. This isn’t PR.

This is us.

Liam rises slowly, palms sliding around my waist like he’s grounding himself with every inch. His gaze hits mine—hot, sure, and so damn full I feel it all the way down to my toes.

“I love you,” he says. Low. Meant for no one else.

My throat tightens. “I know,” I whisper back. “I love you too.”

Then he kisses me.

Not a polite, camera-ready kiss. Not the kind we used to fake. This one’s deep. Familiar. A little clumsy. A little perfect. Like we’re still learning each other and already know everything all at once.

The baby kicks—hard—right between us, and we both laugh, foreheads pressed together.

“I think she’s ready to meet you,” I say softly.

“She better hold off,” he mutters. “I still haven’t finished putting together that death trap Griffin sent us. It’s got 140 screws and two Allen wrenches. I think it’s a test.”

“She’s got time. I don’t,” I groan, stretching my back as the press moves on and the hallway empties.

He takes my hand, kisses my knuckles, and grins like a man who still can’t believe he got this lucky.

“Let’s go home before she makes her debut in the parking lot.”

“You’re driving,” I warn, “and we’re stopping for pickles. And hot fudge.”

He nods solemnly. “Done. But if they’re out of the brand you like, I’m not above hopping the counter.”

I roll my eyes, but I can’t stop smiling. We walk together down the hallway—slow, hand in hand—toward the kind of future we never planned but somehow got,anyway.

And damn, does it feel good.

The End