Our house

Mallory

3 months later: May 9th

I was seven months pregnant, and my ankles hated me, my back was ready to file for divorce, and I was pretty sure my belly had developed a gravitational pull of its own.

But the evening was warm, the garden was quiet, and Kian was next to me, his hand resting gently on my bump like it belonged there. Like he belonged there. And maybe he did.

"Do you reckon she can hear us?" he asked suddenly, glancing down at the curve of my belly like it was some sort of secret-keeping portal.

I grinned, leaning my head against his shoulder. "She definitely hear you. You never shut up."

He huffed a laugh. "Harsh. But fair."

It was peaceful. The kind of peaceful I hadn't thought I'd get to feel again—not after those first terrifying weeks. Not after telling Da. Or the hearing with Kian's family. Or everything else that had tried to knock us sideways.

But here we were.

Kian shifted slightly, brushing a thumb over my belly. "I still can't believe it's nearly time."

"Me either," I murmured. "I don't feel ready."

He looked at me then, properly. "You don't have to be. We'll figure it out."

I smiled, small but real. "You're getting good at this whole reassuring thing."

"Aye, well. Practice makes perfect. I've had a lot of moments to panic beside you, haven't I?"

"Too many," I muttered, but I reached for his hand and laced my fingers through his anyway.

The garden smelled like cut grass and whatever weird herbs my mam had planted in the corner beds. Somewhere inside, I could hear Serena's laugh and Dean's voice chiming in—probably arguing over crisps or whose turn it was to change the playlist.

Home.

It felt like home.

I looked over at Kian again, watching the way his jaw softened when he looked at me, the quiet awe in his eyes whenever he looked at the bump.

"You're going to be a good dad," I said quietly.

His head snapped toward me, brows lifting. "You reckon?"

"I know."

He didn't say anything for a moment, just blinked like he was swallowing down something that might break him open if he let it.

Then, softly, "I just want her to have better. Then I did."

"They will," I promised. "They already do."

And maybe we weren't doing it the way we were meant to. Maybe we were too young and too messy and too scared most of the time.

But we were doing it.

Together.

And somehow, that was enough.

Back inside, the warmth hit us like a wave—mam had the oven on, probably roasting something "for later" that we'd all end up eating before dinner. The telly was on low, someone had left a half-drunk glass of squash on the coffee table, and the cushions on the couch were in chaos. Typical.

Serena was sprawled across the armchair with a packet of jellies, AJ and Luke had claimed the couch, and Dean was sitting on the floor with Conor, helping him build something out of LEGO that was definitely not part of the original instructions.

We'd barely made it three steps into the kitchen when Mam turned around from the counter, tea towel flung over her shoulder like she was about to host Come Dine With Me.

"Well?" she said, hands on her hips. "Are ye ever gonna go home, any of ye?"

Everyone froze for a second. Then:

"Aoife!" Serena grinned. "You love us really."

Mam gave her the kind of look only an Irish mam could pull off—equal parts exasperation and secret affection. "Love ye? I'd like to not trip over one of you every time I walk into the room."

"I cleaned the cups!" Dean offered from the floor, raising a hand like he was about to be knighted.

"You rinsed the cups," Mam corrected. "With cold water."

Luke coughed to hide a laugh, and Conor—never one to miss a moment—added, "Dean also gave Rudy half his sandwich. He liked him a lot for about five minutes."

"Oh, well in that case," Mam said, deadpan, "he's family now."

Serena beamed, AJ saluted her, and Kian leaned down to kiss the side of my head like this chaos was the most natural thing in the world.

Mam shook her head with a sigh and turned back to the sink. "At least pretend ye've homes, would ye?"

"Can't," Conor said, stretching out. "My real home has chores."

"Mine has people I'm avoiding," Luke added.

Dean gave a soft shrug. "Mine's just a bit shit."

And Mam—God love her—paused at that. Just a second. Then she reached into the press, pulled out another few mugs and started boiling the kettle.

"Alright," she said, quieter this time. "If you're staying, someone better make the tea."

And just like that, they were hers too.