Page 94 of Omega's Fever

“A little to the left,” I say, watching Kellen wrestle with the crib. “No, your other left.”

He shoots me a look over his shoulder, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air. “You sure you measured right?”

“Of course I measured right.” I shift on the rocking chair, one hand pressed to my enormous belly. Seven months pregnant and I feel like a beached whale. “I measured three times.”

“Because you’re a control freak,” he says, but there’s fondness in it.

“Yes. And I’m a control freak whose control freakery saved you from prison. Don’t forget it.”

He harrumphs.

I watch him work, the play of muscles under his t-shirt as he adjusts the crib’s position. Even after all these months, watching him still makes my mouth go dry. The scar on his chest is a constant reminder of how close I came to losing him.

“There.” He steps back, hands on his hips. “Perfect?”

I tilt my head, pretending to consider. “I suppose it’ll do.”

He crosses to me in two strides, leaning down to kiss me. “You suppose?”

“Mmm.” I thread my fingers through his hair, still short but longer than the prison cut. “Maybe you should convince me.”

“Later,” he promises against my lips. “After we finish the nursery.”

I groan. “Slave driver.”

“You’re the one who insisted we needed everything perfect before the baby arrives.” He helps me to my feet, steadying me when I wobble. “Come on. Let’s see how it looks with the dresserin place.”

Our new apartment is nothing like my old downtown high-rise. It’s in a quieter neighborhood, the kind where kids actually play on the sidewalks and neighbors know each other’s names. Three bedrooms, ground floor with multiple exits—Kellen had insisted on that. A small yard in back where he’s already talking about putting up a swing set.

It’s perfect.

“When’s your first class tomorrow?” I ask as we maneuver the dresser into position.

“Ten.” His face lights up the way it always does when he talks about the gym. “Got twelve kids signed up for junior boxing already.”

“You’re going to be amazing with them,” I say. Kellen’s partnering with social services to offer the classes. He’s trying to give kids the opportunities that he didn’t have.

“Hope so.” But I can see the doubt there, the worry that never quite goes away.

“Stop.” I catch his hand. “You’re going to be amazing because you’ve been where they are. You understand them in a way most people can’t.”

He pulls me close—as close as my belly allows—and rests his forehead against mine. “How’d I get so lucky?”

“Clean living and good behavior,” I deadpan, making him laugh.

We work in comfortable rhythm after that. Seven months of learning each other’s patterns, each other’s needs. He knows I’ll reorganize whatever he puts away at least twice. I know he’ll check every window lock before bed, sometimes twice. We’ve found our balance.

“I still think Oliver for a boy,” I say, folding tiny onesies. “After your foster mom. Olivia, right? The one who taught you to cook?”

He pauses in hanging the mobile. “You remembered that.”

“I remember everything you tell me.” I place a stack of clothes in the drawer, then immediately rearrange them by size. “She sounded wonderful.”

“She was.” His voice goes soft.

I move to him, wrap my arms around him from behind as best I can.

He turns in my arms. “Oliver Hayes-Warren?”