I laugh, the sound rumbling through both of us. "Of course you did."
"I'm efficient." She pulls back, smiling up at me. "And I figured if I waited for us to agree on anything, this kid would be in college before his room was decorated."
Shit, at this point he might be in college before we name him, too.
"Fair point." I brush her hair out of her eyes, staring down at her just because I can. "I can build some mountain-shaped shelves that’d look good in here.”
"You can?" Her eyes light up, and goddamn, I would do anything to keep that look on her face.
"I'll draw up some designs later." I drop a quick kiss on her lips. "First, let's clear this place out."
We work side by side for the next couple hours, moving boxes to the basement, sorting through old stuff, making space for our son. Wren's playlist fills the room—a mix of indie rock and 90s classics that has her singing under her breath when she thinks I'm not listening.
As I watch her arranging things, dancing around the room despite her belly and singing off-key to some Pearl Jam song, I know this is exactly where I’m supposed to be.
"Hey," I call out, grabbing a paintbrush from one of the bags. "Since we're doing this mountain thing, what if we painted an actual mountain scene on that wall?"
She turns, her hair messy from moving furniture, a smudge of dust on her cheek. "You can paint?"
"Badly," I admit. "But I can try."
Her smile starts slow, then spreads across her face. Fuck, that one right there would be the best one in my collection. "Yes, do it.”
We spend the next hour arguing about the mountain range I'm trying to paint—too pointy here, not enough trees there—but it's the best kind of arguing. The kind that ends with paint on both our faces and sore abs from laughing so much.
When we finally call it quits, the nursery still looks like a disaster zone, but it's starting to come together.
"Not bad for your first try," Wren says, surveying my questionable mountain artwork.
"Shut up," I say, but I'm grinning. "Next week, I'll start on the shelves."
She leans into my side, and I wrap my arm around her shoulders automatically. "This is nice," she murmurs against my chest.
"Yeah," I agree, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "It is."
There's a twenty-four-week pregnant woman with swollen ankles and back pain who really needs to stop pretending she's invincible.
Unfortunately, that woman is me.
I stare at my computer screen until the numbers blur, rubbing my temple with one hand while the other rests on my belly. It's nearly nine, and I should've left the office hours ago, but these quarterly projections won't finish themselves. The baby chooses this moment to deliver a sharp kick to my ribs, making me wince.
"Yeah, I know," I mutter to him. "Your dad's going to kill me when he finds out I'm still here."
My phone buzzes. I don't need to look to know it's Kasen. The man's developed a sixth sense for when I'm pushing myself too hard.
Kasen: You're still at work, aren't you?
Kasen: Pink. It's almost 9.
Kasen: At least text me back so I know you're alive.
I pick up my phone, already knowing this conversation won't end well.
Me: Just finishing up. Be home soon.
Kasen: Define 'soon.' Because to me, soon means now.
Me: Soon means when I'm done. You're not my keeper.
