Page 27 of His Best Friend’s Heat

By the time the moving truck arrives, we've managed to pack most of our life into labeled boxes.

Emma has been promoted to official supervisor, which mostly involves her pointing at things and saying "Box!

" with great authority. She's also learned to say something that sounds like "Truck!

" and applies it liberally to anything with wheels, including the vacuum cleaner.

"Last load," Jason announces, carrying Emma's crib pieces toward the door. "You guys ready to say goodbye to this place?"

I take a final look around the apartment that became our first home.

The walls where we hung Emma's ultrasound photos.

The kitchen where Nick learned to make pregnancy-craving snacks at three in the morning.

The bedroom where we figured out how to be partners instead of just friends, where we brought Emma home and spent those first terrifying, wonderful weeks learning how to keep a tiny human alive.

"It's weird, right?" Nick says, coming to stand beside me. "Leaving."

"Good weird or sad weird?"

"Both?" He wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me close. "This place...it's where we became us. Really us."

"We were always us," I remind him. "We just finally figured out what that meant."

"True." He presses a kiss to my temple. "Ready for the next adventure?"

I look at Emma, who's attempting to "help" Jason carry a box by holding onto one corner with her tiny fist. At Diana, who's already making plans for how to arrange Emma's toys in the new playroom. At this family we've built from friendship and accident and choice.

"Yeah," I say. "I'm ready."

***

The new house is everything we dreamed of when we started looking six months ago—bigger yard, actual dining room, and most importantly, space for Emma to run around without giving our downstairs neighbors heart attacks.

But standing in the empty living room with boxes stacked everywhere and Emma toddling between them like she owns the place, it hits me how much our life has changed.

"Up!" Emma commands, raising her arms toward me. She's gotten heavy—toddlers are surprisingly dense—but I lift her anyway, settling her on my hip.

"What do you think, baby girl? You like the new house?"

She points toward the kitchen and says something that might be "Cookie?" but could also be "Ki-ki?" or possibly just excited babbling.

"No cookies yet," I tell her. "But maybe after we unpack the kitchen."

"I vote for pizza," Nick calls from the hallway, where he's directing traffic with the moving guys. "Cooking seems overly ambitious for day one."

"Pizza sounds perfect," Diana agrees, emerging from what will be Emma's new room with an armload of stuffed animals. "I may have gone overboard buying things for the new nursery."

"Define overboard," I say suspiciously.

"Just a few books. And some toys. And possibly a rocking chair."

"Mom," Nick says, appearing in the doorway. "Please tell me you didn't buy furniture without asking."

"I bought a rocking chair," Diana admits. "But it's beautiful! Antique oak, perfect for bedtime stories. It's already in the nursery."

"Along with what appears to be an entire bookstore," Jason adds, passing by with a box labeled "Emma's New Books - Nana's Fault."

I exchange a look with Nick. Diana has been Emma's most enthusiastic grandparent from day one, which is wonderful but sometimes requires gentle management. Last month she bought Emma a toy kitchen that's bigger than our actual kitchen used to be.

"Why don't you show me this nursery," I suggest diplomatically. "Emma can help me inspect."

Nick's face immediately lights up with that nervous excitement he gets when he's proud of something but worried I won't like it. "Okay, but remember, if you don't like anything, we can change it. The paint, the furniture arrangement, whatever you want—"

"Nick," I interrupt gently. "Show me."

He leads me down the hallway, past the master bedroom and guest room, to the room at the end that gets the best natural light. He opens the door with a flourish, then immediately looks anxious.

"Oh," I breathe.

The room is perfect. The walls are painted a soft sage green—the same color we picked out eighteen months ago but never used because Emma arrived early and we ran out of time.

There's the accent wall behind the crib in a slightly deeper green, with hand-painted trees that create a peaceful forest scene.

Diana's rocking chair sits in the corner by the window, already stacked with books and stuffed animals.

But it's the details that make my throat tight with emotion.

Emma's name painted in elegant script above the crib, surrounded by tiny painted birds.

A mobile made from felt leaves and woodland creatures hanging over the changing table.

Photo frames ready for all the pictures we'll take as she grows.

And in the corner, barely noticeable unless you're looking for it, a small wooden box on the dresser. I know without asking that it contains all of Nick's carefully saved "firsts"—the pregnancy test, the hospital bracelet, the ultrasound photos, the newborn outfit.

"Nick," I start, but my voice cracks.

"Do you like it?" he asks anxiously. "I know the trees might be too much, and we can repaint—"

"I love it," I say firmly, turning to face him. Emma babbles her approval from my arms, reaching toward the mobile with both hands and making excited sounds.

"It's perfect. She's going to love it."

Nick's shoulders drop with relief. "Mom helped with the trees. And Jason painted the name—apparently he has hidden artistic talents."

"It's beautiful. All of it." I shift Emma to one arm so I can reach for Nick's hand. "Thank you for making this so special."

"She deserves special," Nick says simply. "You both do."

Emma chooses that moment to babble something enthusiastic while pointing at the trees, clapping her hands together.

"She likes it too," I tell Nick, who immediately looks like he might cry from pride.

"Of course she does. She has excellent taste."

"She tried to eat packing tape this morning."

"Discerning palate," Nick corrects without missing a beat.

We spend the next few hours unpacking essentials and arranging furniture, with Emma providing commentary and supervision.

Diana and Jason prove invaluable—Diana knows exactly where everything should go, and Jason has an engineering degree that apparently makes him gifted at assembling cribs and bookshelves.

Ellie texted earlier that she's driving up tomorrow with a housewarming gift and "proper Chinese takeout because you're probably living on pizza," which is embarrassingly accurate.

By evening, the house is starting to feel like home.

Emma's toys are scattered across the living room, coffee mugs have found their way to the kitchen counter, and Nick has already hung our favorite photo in the hallway—the three of us from Emma's first Christmas, all wearing matching pajamas that Diana insisted on.

"First night in the new house," Nick says as we settle Emma into her new crib for bedtime. She's exhausted from a day of exploration and change, but she still wants to examine every detail of her new room.

She points up at the mobile and babbles something that sounds like a question, tilting her head to study the felt animals.

"Those are birds," I tell her. "They'll watch over you while you sleep."

She considers this seriously, then lies down and pulls her favorite blanket—the soft yellow one Diana knitted before Emma was born—up to her chin.

"Love you, baby girl," Nick says softly, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

"Love you too," I add, smoothing her dark hair. She has Nick's eyes but my stubborn cowlick, and the combination makes her look wise beyond her eighteen months.

"Da-da," she says sleepily, already half-asleep. "Love."

My heart does that thing it always does when she says her few clear words. "Love you too, Emma Rose."

We leave her door cracked open and retreat to our own room, where boxes labeled "Master Bedroom" are stacked against the far wall. The movers set up our bed first thing, which was smart because I'm too exhausted to think about unpacking clothes.

"Good first day?" Nick asks, sitting on the edge of the bed to pull off his shoes.

"The best," I say honestly, settling beside him. "I can't believe we actually did it. Bought a house, became real adults with a mortgage and everything."

"Don't forget the toddler," Nick adds. "Real adults with a mortgage and a tiny person who depends on us for everything."

"How are we responsible for keeping a human alive?" I ask, the same question that's been floating around my head since Emma was born. "Some days I can barely remember to eat lunch."

"We're doing okay so far," Nick points out. "She's happy, healthy, says new words every day, and only occasionally tries to poison herself with household objects."

"True. And she's got your mom wrapped around her tiny finger, which means built-in babysitting and unlimited spoiling."

"Also true." Nick lies back against the pillows, pulling me down beside him. "Think she'll like it here?"

"She already does. Did you see her face when she discovered the backyard? She's going to spend all summer running around out there."

"Making mud pies and chasing butterflies," Nick says with a grin. "Maybe we should get her a swing set."

"Slow down there, Papa. She just learned to walk without falling down every five minutes."

"But imagine how cute she'll be on swings."

I can imagine it, actually. Emma with grass stains on her knees and dirt under her tiny fingernails, laughing as Nick pushes her higher. The mental image makes my chest warm with anticipation for all the ordinary moments we'll collect in this house.

"We should probably think about the future," I say, settling more comfortably against Nick's side. "Long-term planning and all that."

"What kind of future thinking?"

"Well, there's the second nursery."

Nick goes very still. "Second nursery?"

"The room next to Emma's," I say casually. "Perfect size for another crib. When we're ready, I mean. Eventually."

"How eventually?" Nick's voice is carefully neutral, but I can feel his interest through our bond.

"I don't know. Emma should probably be potty trained first. And maybe sleeping through the night consistently."

"She is sleeping through the night. Mostly."

"Last week she woke up at three AM because she wanted to show us her stuffed elephant."

"That was important elephant business," Nick defends. "But you're right, maybe we should wait until she's a little more independent."

"Maybe when she's two? Two and a half?"

"That sounds reasonable," Nick agrees, then pauses. "Are we really talking about having another baby?"

"We're talking about maybe talking about it," I clarify. "Someday. If we both want to."

"Do you want to?" he asks quietly.

The question hangs between us for a moment.

Eighteen months ago, one baby seemed overwhelming.

Now, watching Emma grow and change every day, the idea of doing it all again—the pregnancy, the late-night feedings, the first smiles and words and steps—doesn't seem overwhelming at all. It seems like the natural next chapter.

"Yeah," I say honestly. "I think I do. Not immediately, but...yeah."

"Good," Nick says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "Because I've been thinking about it too. Emma needs someone to boss around."

"She bosses us around perfectly well."

"True, but siblings are different. Built-in playmates and co-conspirators."

"Are you hoping for a boy next time?"

"I'm hoping for healthy," Nick says immediately. "But if we had a boy who looked exactly like you, I wouldn't complain."

"And if we had another girl who turns out exactly like Emma?"

"Then we'll have two tiny tornados and probably need to invest in better home insurance."

I laugh, picturing our house filled with the chaos of two small children. It should be terrifying, but instead it feels like promise. Like all the dreams I never let myself have are actually within reach.

"We have time to figure it out," I say, already drowsy from the day's excitement and the familiar comfort of Nick's arms around me.

"All the time in the world," Nick agrees, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.

As I drift toward sleep, I think about the journey that brought us here—from that first accidental heat to this house full of possibility.

From best friends fumbling through the most complicated situation of our lives to partners who can talk about future babies and mortgage payments with equal enthusiasm.

From the monitor on the nightstand, we can hear Emma's soft breathing and the occasional rustle as she settles deeper into sleep. Our daughter, in her perfect nursery, in our home, surrounded by family who loves her unconditionally.

Tomorrow we'll finish unpacking. We'll hang pictures and arrange furniture and probably discover that we have way too much stuff and not enough storage space.

Emma will explore every corner of her new domain, Diana will bring more "necessities" that we definitely don't need, and Jason will find new ways to make Emma laugh until she hiccups.

But tonight, we're exactly where we belong—the three of us, in our house, with our whole future ahead of us.

And it's perfect.