Page 58

Late February

T he nursery is perfect.

Callum built the crib himself, solid oak with details that speak to craftsmanship and love, positioned to catch the morning light without creating glare.

Julian researched every aspect of nursery safety and design, creating a space that's both beautiful and functional.

Dean painted a mural on one wall—a mountain landscape that looks remarkably like the view from our back porch, complete with the old oak tree where we've talked about hanging a swing someday.

At thirty-eight weeks pregnant, I can barely see my feet, but I don't need to. My three alphas have made sure I don't have to worry about anything below my enormous belly.

"Feet up," Callum says gruffly, settling onto the couch beside me with the kind of gentle authority that's become second nature over the past month. "You've been on them too much today."

"I just walked from the kitchen to here," I protest, though I'm already lifting my swollen ankles onto his lap.

"Too much," he repeats, his large hands beginning to work at the pressure points that always seem to ache these days.

Dean appears from the kitchen carrying a plate of the little sandwiches I've been craving—cucumber and cream cheese cut into triangles because apparently our baby has very specific opinions about food shapes.

Julian follows with my pregnancy pillow, the special one that somehow supports every part of my body that hurts.

"How are you feeling?" Julian asks, arranging the pillow behind my back with scientific precision. "Any contractions? Changes in pressure? The baby's been quiet today."

"She's just sleeping," I say, one hand moving to my belly where our daughter has been notably still for the past few hours. "Gathering her strength for her grand entrance."

"She?" Dean asks with a grin, settling into the chair closest to me. "Still convinced it's a girl?"

"Mother's intuition," I say confidently, though we've chosen to wait and be surprised.

The claiming bites on my throat have long since faded to silver scars, but the emotional connection between us has only grown stronger.

Right now I can feel their combined love and protectiveness like a warm blanket wrapped around me.

Dean's gentle excitement, Julian's careful monitoring of every symptom, Callum's fierce need to make sure I'm comfortable.

"Any day now," Julian murmurs, his analytical mind clearly running calculations. "Everything's ready. Hospital bag, car seat installed, birth plan reviewed?—"

"Julian," I interrupt gently, reaching for his hand. "Breathe. She'll come when she's ready."

"I know," he says, but I can feel his nervous energy through our bond. "I just want everything to be perfect for both of you."

"It will be," Dean says with certainty, bringing me one of the sandwiches. "Because she's going to have three devoted fathers and the best mother in the world."

Callum's hands work magic on my feet, finding pressure points that ease the constant aching. "Been thinking about the swing," he says quietly. "For the oak tree. Something she can use when she's older."

The image makes my heart full, our daughter playing in the backyard while her fathers watch protectively, the house we've built together filled with laughter and love and all the ordinary magic of family life.

A sharp tightening across my belly makes me pause mid-bite. Different from the Braxton Hicks contractions I've been having for weeks. Stronger. More purposeful.

"Everything okay?" Dean asks immediately, his firefighter instincts picking up on my stillness.

"I think—" Another contraction, stronger this time, that makes me set down the sandwich and breathe through it. "I think it's time."

The effect on all three of them is immediate. Julian goes into planning mode, mentally running through the hospital checklist. Dean's already reaching for his keys. Callum's hands go still on my feet as he processes what I've said.

"Time time?" he asks, his gruff voice carrying wonder and barely controlled panic.

"Time time," I confirm, and then I feel it—a warm rush of fluid that means there's no going back.

"Hospital," Julian says immediately, already moving toward the bags we've had packed for weeks. "Now."

"Easy," Dean says, though I can see his own excitement building. "Let's get you to the car."

Callum helps me to my feet with infinite gentleness, his large hands steady and sure. "Ready to meet our baby?" he asks softly.

I look around our living room. The space where we first said we loved each other, where we planned our future, where we've built something beautiful together.

Through the window, I can see the oak tree where our daughter will someday play, the mountains that will watch over her as she grows, the town that will help us raise her with love and community.

"Ready," I say, meaning it completely.

As we make our way to the car, another contraction wraps around me like a promise. Soon, very soon, we'll meet the little person who's been growing under our hearts. Our family is about to get bigger, more complicated, more beautiful than we ever imagined.

And I can't wait.