AN: I love Edward so much. He's always fun to write. Especially this one. He's a lot like my Edward in Ethics Be Damned. Anyway, we're back to Bella now. I did post some outtakes I wrote a year or more so ago of his EPOV in my krazyk85 group on Facebook. Just in case, you need more.

I haven't decided on a place for their babymoon yet. I've had some great suggestions.

Thanks to pre-readers May and Brina per usual.

SM owns Twilight but also owns me because I am forever obsessed with the world she created.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

-The Evander Holyfield Phase-

I'm six months pregnant.

Twenty-four weeks and three days. I know because I'm tracking everything—on three apps, a spreadsheet, and a sticky note on the fridge. Baby kicks, mood swings, how often I cry at commercials. It's all logged.

This phase of pregnancy is relentless. Emotions hit hard. Hunger hits harder. One minute I'm fine, the next I'm sobbing over cereal or eating like it's a survival strategy.

Last night, I polished off an entire pan of brownies. Not slices. The whole pan, with a fork. And when I realized I hadn't saved Edward a single bite, I lost it. Full-on meltdown. I stood in front of the oven, crying into a potholder, genuinely concerned I had emotionally damaged our twins.

Edward found me like that—completely undone. He didn't ask questions. Just pulled me in and said, "It's fine, honey." Which only made me cry harder, because it wasn't fine. And somehow, that made it better.

As for the twins, they've become extremely active. One's practicing martial arts, the other's choreographing something dramatic in my rib cage. I tried charting it—meal times, caffeine, moon phases. Nothing explains the chaos. It's nonstop, and I'm tired in a way I didn't know was possible.

And then there's Edward.

He's calm, steady, unreasonably attractive. He walks by in a towel or leans down to grab something, and suddenly I'm short-circuiting. He catches the look in my eyes and knows exactly what it means. Doesn't need me to say a word. Just closes the distance, grounded and focused like he's been waiting for this moment too.

And when we're together, everything else fades. The stress. The noise. The ache in my lower back. He makes space for me—in every way.

Life right now is messy and overwhelming. But it's also full. Solid. Ours.

And it's good.

Really, really good.

Edward's been glowing since he got back from Florida.

Not just smiling—buzzing. He can't sit still and finally breathing again.

I haven't seen him like this in a long time. Not since before Vegas. Before the Super Bowl. Before the chaos with TMZ and Gigi, and the stretch of weeks we weren't allowed to be seen together because of some ridiculous WAG policy. I spent those nights crying alone. He spent them pacing hotel rooms. We were unraveling, quietly, in different places.

But now?

He walked through the door, looked at me like I was the only thing keeping him grounded, then picked me up and spun me like we weren't expecting twins. "This is it, honey. We're doing it," he said. Then he kissed me, hard.

And just like that, everything between us clicked back into place.

We made up for lost time, several times, and in several less-than-practical locations. He came back with stamina and something to prove—and the softest heart. He even unpacked his carry-on like it was Christmas: six perfect mangos, two giant pretzels with that neon cheese I crave, and lime chips he fought a vending machine for. No goat, though. I asked. He nodded and said, "Someday," completely serious.

Because it's official—he signed with Tampa.

Quiet for now. Attorneys, contracts, NDAs. Jenkins, Edward's lawyer, is keeping everything under wraps until it's announced. Jasper's working the angles, arranging endorsement deals, brand launches, even a promo shoot this summer in Barbados. But the most important part? There's no gag order on his personal life.

Which means we're going too—me and the babies.

Together.

I haven't told anyone. Not even Alice. Not yet. Because Edward hasn't told Seattle. Not the coaches, not the staff, not the guys who've bled for him. And I know that weighs on him.

We're curled up on the couch, TV muted, one of his old games playing in the background. His head's in my lap, one hand resting on my belly, tracing soft circles like he's memorizing every curve. He won't look at the screen. Doesn't need to. He's already lived it.

"You'll have to tell them soon," I say, combing my fingers through his hair. It's longer now. Looser. He looks more like the boy I fell for and less like the machine the world expects him to be.

"I know," he says.

"They'll figure it out."

He sighs. "I know."

I glance down at him. "So what's the plan? Hope Jenkins sends a vague all-staff email and prays it lands in spam?"

He gives a soft laugh. It's small, but it's real.

"Did Tampa mean it?" I ask. "About bringing your own people?"

"Yeah," he says. "They said I could build a team."

I wait. He doesn't elaborate.

"So… are we starting a recruitment campaign?"

He shakes his head. "Doesn't work like that. Most of them aren't free agents. Contracts. Caps. It's complicated."

"Football Hogwarts," I mutter. "Except with playbooks instead of wands."

That earns a real smile. "Not exactly, Hermione."

"But if you could bring them?"

He looks up at me. His eyes are tired, but calm. Steady. "You know I would."

And I do.

Edward never forgets the ones who went to war with him. But he's also learned when to let go.

"But they're not free," he says. "And I can't wait around. Not this time."

I cover his hand with mine, over the spot where one of the twins just kicked. "No," I say softly. "You can't."

He turns his face into my stomach, lips brushing my skin like he's whispering something only they'll hear. Maybe he's telling them I'm dramatic. Fair enough.

They're already obsessed with him. I can feel it. And I know they'll come out just like him—sharp, stubborn, soft in all the places no one sees.

We can't go public yet. But that doesn't mean we can't start moving forward.

Next week, during spring break, we're heading to Florida. House hunting. Edward's keeping his Seattle penthouse for me and the babies until I graduate—Emmett and Rose have unofficially claimed it as their personal hotel—but Florida is becoming real. Not just a plan. A beginning.

We'll tour houses I don't understand, filled with media rooms and chef's kitchens, while I send Edward TikToks of pools with waterfalls and waterslides.

Alice and Jasper are coming too. She's calling it a "scouting trip," and already acting like our realtor-slash-event-planner-slash-mood board specialist. Jasper just wants Cuban food and to convince Edward to wear flip-flops in public. I wish him luck.

I asked my OB about flying, expecting a polite no. But he said I'm good to go. As long as I stay hydrated and don't do anything insane—like ziplining or wrestling a gator—I'm cleared.

So we're making it a mini vacation. Just a few days of ocean air and sunshine.

And no, it's not our babymoon.

Edward was clear about that—serious-face, hands-in-mine, low-voiced kind of clear. "I'm taking you on a real one," he said. "Somewhere quiet. Somewhere you can sleep, and eat, and forget the world."

That's him. Always thinking ahead. Always choosing us. Always making sure I feel held, even when everything's shifting around us.

Fast forward to Florida.

I'm twenty-five weeks and one day—not that anyone's keeping track. I am. Religiously. At this point, there's no pretending. I'm big. Not in the cute, round-belly way strangers smile at in the grocery store. It's all curves—breasts, belly, hips—like my whole body's doubling down on the pregnancy thing.

In Seattle, I could hide behind sweaters and mist and the general coziness of gray skies. Here in Tampa, the sun is relentless. The heat sticks to you. My thighs are inseparable, my bra's waging war, and my hair has revolted—frizzy, wild, permanently damp at the roots. I've reapplied deodorant twice. I've thought about diving into a stranger's pool.

I finally gave up and put on the only thing that didn't feel like punishment: a white cotton sundress with tiny pink flowers and tie straps. It's thin and soft and hangs just above my knees. Not my usual style—girly, too delicate—but it doesn't cling, and I needed the relief.

Except it does cling. Just enough.

Every time I bend, turn, or even breathe too deeply, the fabric pulls and stretches. It skims across my hips, dips beneath my belly, outlines the curve of my chest. I didn't mean for it to be suggestive. But apparently, it is.

And Edward is not okay.

He's been behind me all day. Not beside me. Not out in front. But behind me. Always right there—close enough that I can feel him even when we're not touching.

His hand keeps drifting to me. Light touches. A thumb tracing the slope of my back. Fingers brushing under the curve of my stomach. The inside of my arm where the skin's gone extra sensitive. Every time I shift, he's already there—anchoring me with the kind of focus that borders on obsessive.

Then there's the dress strap.

It slips.

He catches it.

"Oops," he murmurs, fingers sliding the spaghetti strap back up my shoulder—slow, firm, intentional.

"That's the third time," I say, trying to sound unaffected. I fail miserably.

He just shrugs, completely unbothered, all smug confidence. "Gravity likes me."

My breath shudders. My thighs press together. The sundress, once a breezy solution to Florida heat, now feels like a tactical mistake.

"You good?" I whisper, trying to keep my voice light. "You look like you're about to bite someone."

Edward places a hand on my lower back and leans down so only I can hear. "If we don't leave soon, I'm going to make an offer on this house just for the upstairs laundry room."

I freeze. Tighten my grip on my water bottle like it's the only thing keeping me upright. "Edward, if you mention the laundry room one more time—"

His grin is sharp. Wicked. Completely unrepentant.

"Closets too."

Dominique, our real estate agent, is mid-monologue about "architectural synergy" and "heritage marble," her heels clicking across the imported travertine like it's a stage. Alice and Jasper are fully hooked—nodding, murmuring, visibly impressed.

The house is peak Avila: wrought-iron accents, terracotta roof, oversized archways. There's an actual bridge connecting the primary suite to the rest of the house, because apparently hallways are outdated. The pool has a retractable roof. The bathroom chandelier looks like a fist-sized diamond.

Everything gleams. The air smells like money and lemon polish. It's equal parts Spanish revival, Mediterranean drama, and over-the-top opulence.

It's gorgeous. It's absurd.

And exactly what you'd expect in this neighborhood.

"I feel like we're walking through someone else's dream," I whisper, brushing Edward's hand away from the hem of my dress.

"Mm," he hums, eyes still fixed on my thighs like he didn't hear a word I said. "Dream's the right word."

Dominique leads us down the hall, heels clicking softly. "This next feature is one of my personal favorites," she says, pausing beside a tucked-away door. "A full panic room hidden behind the butler's pantry."

I blink. A panic room.

Sure. Why not.

"What would we even do in there?" I murmur. "Hide from hurricane season? Escape unsolicited parenting advice?"

I glance at Edward, resting my hand on my belly. "Totally normal. Totally chill."

He slides an arm around my waist, his hand settling under the curve of my bump. His thumb moves in slow, deliberate circles, and I nearly lose my balance.

"You're doing this on purpose," he breathes, mouth grazing my jaw. "Wearing that. Walking like that."

"I'm pregnant," I whisper, equal parts exasperated and breathless.

He huffs a low laugh, frustrated. "Oh, honey. I know."

Dominique keeps going. Jasper's nodding like he cares. Alice sees everything from across the room and gives me a look. She's pretending not to notice the massive quarterback practically pressed against me, dragging his knuckles across the back of my thigh like he can't help himself.

Traitor.

While the others marvel over the walk-in refrigerator—Dominique pointing out features, Alice asking about energy efficiency—I drift toward the pantry tucked behind a frosted glass door. It's huge. Shelves from floor to ceiling, perfectly stocked. Granola bars, trail mix, three kinds of sparkling water… and double-stuffed Oreos.

I'm honestly impressed.

I'm still taking it all in when I feel him.

Edward slips in behind me, quiet and close. No warning. No space. His chest presses against my back—solid, warm, and entirely deliberate. A full-body reminder of exactly what's on his mind.

"What are you doing?" I ask, breath catching. I already know.

His finger traces the small of my back, light and slow. Goosebumps bloom instantly. I shift, trying to move past him, needing space in this tight corner of the kitchen.

But I don't get far.

His hands slide to my hips, steady and sure, guiding me backward until I hit the island. Cold marble at my back. Heat at my front. My breathing picks up.

I hear the others—Dominique's voice, Alice laughing—fading down the hall. They've left the kitchen. We're alone.

Edward doesn't look at my face. His eyes are locked on the sweat pooling between my breasts. He lifts a hand, traces along my cleavage, fingers slipping just under the neckline of my sundress like he can't stop himself.

I swat at his hand. "Edward."

He does it again. Slower this time. Daring me.

I smack him harder, whisper-shouting now. "Stop that."

His voice drops, petulant. "Isabella Marie, leave my hand alone."

"Edward Anthony, you need to control yourself."

He huffs. Actually huffs. Arms folded. Bottom lip sticking out the tiniest bit. It's insane how unfairly hot he is, even while pouting like a five-year-old denied his favorite toy.

"Fine," he says, stepping back just enough to let me breathe. His eyes shift from me to the kitchen around us. "You like the house?"

I blink. "The house?"

He raises a brow.

I gesture vaguely. "This showroom? Doesn't count."

That earns me a real smile—creases at the corners of his eyes, the kind that makes everything else fall away.

"It's too…" I glance around, searching. "Staged. Like it's pretending to be a home, but no one's ever lived here."

He nods. "Feels like you'd get yelled at for putting your feet up."

"Right? Every breath I take lowers the resale value."

"I want something real," he says. "Where the kids can run into walls without breaking a sculpture."

I laugh. "Where I can burn cookies and no one calls it a crime."

"Where I can kiss you in the kitchen without five architects passing out."

I raise an eyebrow. "Is that you asking permission?"

His grin is cocky. "Not exactly."

Before I can even exhale, his hands are back on my hips, pulling me in like he can't stand the distance. Then his mouth finds mine.

The kiss isn't rushed. It's slow, reverent—like he's memorizing me. Like he wants this moment burned into his blood. Every movement is careful, focused, like nothing in the world matters more than this—than me.

I melt. My fingers grip his shirt, my breath stutters, and for a second, everything else disappears. No house. No heat. No future to plan.

Just him.

Just this.

And yeah.

If he wants to kiss me like that forever?

He can.

Then the sharp click-click-click of Dominique's heels breaks the silence, echoing from down the hall. Her voice follows, bright and chirpy: "Jasper, Alice—come with me to check out the guest house! The garden design is stunning, and the infinity pool is to die for."

There's a shuffle of movement, footsteps trailing off, getting fainter until the kitchen is silent again.

Edward pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. His lips are still parted. His breathing is still uneven. But there's something else now—something alive and wicked dancing in his green eyes.

He takes my hand and tugs. "Come on," he murmurs, already moving.

"Where are we—?" I start to ask, but the look he throws me answers everything.

Oh.

Oh no.

Oh yes.

His grip is firm. Hot. Controlled, but barely. He moves fast—urgent—and I follow, already knowing where this is going.

We slip away from the others and head upstairs. The house isn't huge, but it's big enough to disappear. Quiet halls. Closed doors. Just us. Edward doesn't slow down. He moves through the primary bedroom without a glance at the vaulted ceilings, polished floors, or museum-perfect bed. Not even the ocean view distracts him.

He cuts through the marble bathroom, past a freestanding tub the size of a car, and into the closet.

Except it's not a closet.

It's a universe.

Shelves glow with soft gold light. Shoes line slanted displays. Velvet drawers slide soundlessly. Mirrors catch us from every angle. Marble floors, broken up by plush white rugs, hush our steps. A pale leather bench anchors the center.

I barely have time to take it in. The door clicks shut behind us, sealing the space with intent—and I know exactly what kind of trouble I've walked into.

Edward catches my waist and steps into my space, his presence so commanding it makes my knees unsteady. He walks me back slowly, deliberately, until my spine meets the cool mirrored wall. The glass chills through the thin cotton of my dress, but his body heat floods in to replace it.

His gaze sweeps over me, eyes darkening. He's replaying the kiss in the kitchen and every breath that led us here.

Like it wasn't enough.

"You don't know what you do to me," he says, voice hoarse.

"Edward," I start, but my voice trembles.

"You wear this," he mutters, fingertips tracing the hem as he drags it higher, exposing my thighs, my hips, the silk of my underwear. "You walk around with my babies inside you, and you don't even look at me half the time."

"I look at you," I whisper.

He shakes his head. "No." He lifts the dress further. "Not like I want you to."

His hands move with purpose, gliding from my sides over the swell of my bump, tracing the curve of my ribs. His thumbs slip beneath the neckline of my dress, brushing over sensitive skin, teasing just enough to send heat rushing through me.

Then he slowly slides the thin straps from my shoulders. They fall like ribbon, soft and silent, and the bodice of my sundress slips down, pooling at my waist. He leans in and presses a kiss to my collarbone. Then another, just below. Slow, deliberate, like he's learning me by heart. He moves lower, mouth warm against my chest, until my whole body tightens with anticipation.

His hands slide up, bracketing my ribs, steady and sure. At first gentle, then firmer, his thumbs pressing into my sides to hold me still.

When his lips close around my nipple, I gasp, sharp and involuntary, heat flooding through me. My fingers tangle in his hair, clutching for something solid, as my head tips back against the mirror with a quiet thud.

"You're so soft," Edward murmurs. "So perfect."

I'm still reeling when he lifts his head. For a second, I think he might say something, maybe pull away—but then he kisses me, hard.

It's all heat and hunger. His mouth crashes into mine, urgent, unrelenting. One hand fists in my hair, anchoring me, while the other slides between my legs, over the thin fabric of my panties. His thumb presses, slow and deliberate, and I gasp into his mouth.

Then he pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. They're dark. Steady. Unreadable. It sets something wild loose in my chest.

"I need to taste you," he says, voice rough.

And then he's dropping to his knees—not hesitant, not unsure. Like his body knows exactly what it's doing. One hand lifts my leg, guiding it over his shoulder with practiced care. The other slides up my thigh, grounding me against the mirror.

My dress is bunched around my waist. The air feels cool against my skin as he hooks a finger under the edge of my panties, tugging them aside with aching precision.

Then he looks up at me.

That stare—focused, wrecked, completely sure—makes everything inside me clench.

"Edward," I whisper.

And then he licks into me.

There's no warm-up. No teasing. Just heat and pressure and hunger, like he's been thinking about this for hours. Days. Weeks.

My back arches. My heel digs into his shoulder. I fist his hair with one hand, the other clawing at nothing, trying to stay grounded as he pins my hips and devours me.

His tongue moves deep. Flicking. Circling. Drawing sounds out of me I've never made before.

"You like that?" he rasps, voice thick and low against me.

It's too much. I'm too sensitive. I'm already unraveling.

And still—God—I want more.

"Yes," I breathe. "Edward… yes."

He groans against me.

The sound vibrates through every nerve ending, and I shatter right on the edge—so close, trembling, ready to fall—

Then I hear it.

A voice.

Distant. Muffled.

But real.

Footsteps.

My entire body seizes. I go rigid, frozen against the mirror with my breath caught somewhere between panic and unbearable need. My dress is still hitched around my waist. One leg is over his shoulder. His mouth is still on me.

Edward's head lifts, just barely. His lips are wet. His mouth is flushed red. He looks up at me—and his expression doesn't change. Not even a flicker.

"Don't move," he mouths, voiceless and deadly calm.

The footsteps grow louder. Heels. Sharp and deliberate. Clicking across the marble like a metronome counting down our doom.

"Mr. Cullen?" Dominique's voice floats faintly through the walls. "Are you two—? Oh. I must've taken a wrong turn."

Edward doesn't move. Doesn't blink. One hand tightens on my thigh, the other still anchored at my hip, holding me in place like I belong there. Like the idea of stopping never even crossed his mind.

We wait.

My pulse is a cannon blast in my chest.

Then—mercifully—the clicking retreats.

Silence swells between us. Thick. Tense.

I'm still shaking when his mouth curls into a slow, wicked smirk.

"You were saying?" he murmurs.

And then he devours me.

No hesitation. No mercy.

His mouth crashes back onto me like it never left, tongue slick and demanding, fingers slipping inside me with practiced precision. There's no patience now. No teasing. Just raw, focused hunger. He groans again—louder this time—like the taste of me is the only thing keeping him sane, and the sound rips straight through me.

I cry out, clamping a hand over my mouth as my body bows off the mirror. His hands grip harder, dragging me down onto his mouth and fingers like he needs me to lose control. Like that's the only thing that matters.

His tongue flicks. Circles. Sucks. His fingers thrust deeper. I'm already too close. I can't breathe. I can't think.

"Edward—" It's barely a whisper, but he answers with another growl, his tongue moving faster, fingers curling just right, pushing me over the edge with brutal precision.

I fall apart.

Hard.

My body jerks, legs trembling, vision white-hot at the edges. I come with a cry caught in my throat, my hands lost in his hair, my heel digging into his shoulder like I need to anchor myself to something real.

But he doesn't stop.

He doesn't even pause.

His mouth keeps moving through it, working me harder, slower now, deeper—like he's branding me from the inside out. His name is on my tongue, on my skin, everywhere.

I might've cursed. I might've begged.

I definitely saw stars.

And still, he doesn't let me go. Doesn't let me drift. He holds me there, mouth still reverent, still consuming, like he's not finished.

Like he never will be.

When my body finally gives out, I slump forward, boneless and breathless. Edward rises with me—slow, careful, steady—catching me in both arms before I can sink too far. He holds me there, pressed against his chest, letting me catch my breath as my legs wobble beneath me.

He doesn't speak. Just pulls my sundress back down over my hips with a quiet, almost reverent touch, smoothing the fabric into place like it matters. Like I matter.

I adjust the straps, sliding them back over my shoulders, tucking myself in where I need to. Edward presses soft kisses—one to the inside of my wrist, another to my shoulder, and a third at my cheek. Each one grounding. Each one quiet.

When I'm steady enough to stand, he laces our fingers together and leads me out of the closet, back into the massive hallway.

I'm still flushed. Still trembling.

The house feels colder now. Too perfect. Too still. It was never meant to hold real people. It definitely doesn't know what to do with our heat, our mess, our chaos.

"This isn't it," I whisper.

He exhales, gaze softening as he looks around. "We'll find it. Something that feels like home."

"Where the walls don't echo," I say.

"Where I can make you come in the closet without it feeling like a felony."

"Edward!" I smack his arm, laughing.

He grins and leans in, kissing my temple. "We'll keep looking."

We're somewhere around house number seven when I catch Edward staring blankly at a designer water feature cutting through the middle of the living room like some kind of overpriced art installation. He looks like he's doing math in his head—How fast could I drown myself in that without making a scene?

And honestly? Same.

It's exhausting. Discouraging.

Every house Dominique's shown us today has been objectively perfect. Immaculate finishes, soaring ceilings, neutral color palettes that blur together by the third front door. Places built to impress, not to live in. Massive, cold estates with echoing halls and matching staging furniture, like they were designed by committee for people who never leave fingerprints behind.

Not one of them feels like us.

Definitely not like a place to raise kids with sticky hands and snack crumbs in every corner.

This one—house number seven—is apparently the last available in the neighborhood. Circular drive. Gated entrance. Towering palms standing like guards at attention. It's three stories tall with a staircase so dramatic I feel underdressed just looking at it. The chandeliers are massive. There's a ballroom.

A literal ballroom.

I trail my fingers along a glass banister and shake my head. "What would we even do with a ballroom?"

Edward doesn't miss a beat. "Waltz, apparently."

We both go quiet after that. We don't have to say it—we feel the same thing.

This place has no soul.

Just like the last one. And the one before that.

They're all variations of the same idea. Clean. Cold. Designed to be admired, not lived in. They're not homes. They're showpieces. And every time I walk through one, I feel a little more detached, a little more like I'm pretending to want something I don't.

Dominique finally sighs—the kind of tired exhale that says I know this isn't it either.

"There's one more property," she says, already heading for the car. "It's a little outside the neighborhood. Not gated. Older. By the water. It's… different."

She glances at me, then Edward.

"But you might like it."

We exchange a look. A small shrug from me. Edward arches a brow like how much worse could it get? We exchange a look. I shrug. Edward raises a brow—how much worse could it get?

Then we're following Dominique, leaving behind the manicured sameness of everything we've seen so far.

The houses thin out. The road curves. The air shifts—saltier, softer. Trees stretch wide with moss-draped limbs, and sunlight filters through in warm, flickering bands. No one talks. The silence feels good, like we've finally stepped out of something artificial.

Then we pull in.

No grand entry. No towering glass. Just a low, long house tucked into the trees, stone and wood warm from the sun. It looks settled, not staged. Real.

We step out into quiet. There's birdsong, the creak of trees overhead, a copper wind chime tapping gently in the breeze. The path is a little worn, rosemary spilling over near the porch. The front door is solid wood, with a crack in the corner of the glass that someone tried to fix but didn't hide.

I already love it.

Inside, the air is cool but lived-in. It smells faintly of wood and citrus. Light streams through wide windows, framing sky and trees. The floors are warm oak, slightly worn. The walls are soft, earthy tones. Nothing matches perfectly, and nothing tries too hard.

The light is golden, drifting in through wide, low windows that frame green and sky instead of someone else's mansion.

Dominique's voice floats through, bright but not intrusive. "This home was designed by a local architect—earth-integrated, passive cooling, reclaimed oak floors, handcrafted beams. Look at the joinery. No nails."

I glance up. The beams stretch across the ceiling like ribs—broad, strong, imperfect. My fingers brush the nearest one. There are ridges where tools met wood. It feels human.

Edward finds my hand. He hasn't spoken since we pulled in, but his thumb presses into my palm, slow and steady. When I glance over, he's looking around with that rare, quiet focus of his—like he's seeing something that matters.

The house breathes.

The walls are soft, earthy tones—warm sand, pale clay, sun-washed taupe. The ceilings stretch high overhead, beams exposed, but not in a showy, modern way. Just natural. Unfussy. Honest.

The floors are real oak, worn and honey-colored. I kick off my shoes without thinking and nearly groan. Warm. Solid.

The couch looks like it's been napped on a thousand times. The linen drapes sway slightly in the breeze. There are imperfections everywhere—scratches on the coffee table, a smudge on the wall near the entry, a dent in one of the dining chairs.

"There's a split floor plan," Dominique says, her heels ticking across the wood. "Guest rooms are on the other side of the house—full en suite in both, and one has a window seat that overlooks the garden."

Edward moves ahead of me, one hand trailing slowly along the edge of the kitchen counter. His brow is furrowed, but not in frustration. He's quiet. Focused. Feeling the space.

The kitchen is warm and grounded— butcher block counters, matte black hardware, a farmhouse sink. No sleek, handle-less cabinets here. Just wide, practical drawers and open shelving that actually looks used. There's a chalkboard wall beside the fridge, still covered in doodles and grocery lists, plus a note that reads: Back soon—check the garden for eggs!

Through the open French doors, Jasper's already outside, crouched near a cluster of raised garden beds. He presses a finger into the soil, then nods once, satisfied.

"This soil's legit," he calls. "You could grow anything out here."

""Is this staged?" I whisper.

For the first time today, Dominique lowers her voice. "No. It's been lived in. The family just moved out."

I follow Edward down a short hallway and into a sunken living room tucked off to the side. There are oversized cushions, worn-in armchairs, a throw blanket draped across the back of the couch like someone just stood up. Bookshelves line the walls, filled with actual books—not stylized, not color-coded, just read.

I don't even realize I'm smiling until Edward brushes his fingers across the small of my back.

"This feels like the kind of place I'd find you barefoot at the sink and forget what day it is," he murmurs.

Across the room, Alice looks up—and for a second, her gaze locks with mine. She sees it too. That shift. That quiet, almost imperceptible click of something falling into place.

Dominique keeps talking, a little faster now, like if she fills the space with enough stats and features, she can distract us from what's quietly unfolding.

"Energy-efficient HVAC. Tankless water heater. Integrated smart home system with secure entry. A whole-house generator. And we're only thirty minutes from the stadium!"

That makes Edward pause.

"Thirty?" he says, voice low.

She nods. "Door to door. We timed it on a weekday morning. Thirty-three minutes, max."

He looks at me then. Really looks. And something changes in his expression—like the endless equation he's always running just… stops. The constant calculation of routines, schedules, sacrifice—gone.

We drift toward the primary bedroom. It's quiet, warm. Light spills through wooden blinds, casting shadows across a four-poster bed with wrinkled cotton sheets. There's a reading nook by the window. A baby blanket still folded over the arm of the chair.

The closet isn't extravagant. Just enough. Real.

I feel him move behind me. His hand slides lightly across my hip.

I glance back, warning clear in my eyes. "Don't even think about it."

He leans in, breath warm at my ear. "Too late."

I swat him away, but the smile tugging at his mouth is different. Not teasing. Not frantic.

Hopeful.

Something settles deep in my chest. Not a rush, not a spark—just a quiet certainty. Like something that finally makes sense.

We return to the kitchen and pause in the doorway, neither of us speaking for a beat too long.

"I can see them crawling here," I say softly, eyes on the worn floor. "Falling over each other. Juice cups leaking on the rug."

Edward looks at me like I just handed him a lifeline.

He doesn't say I love you.

He just says, "Yeah."

My fingers rest lightly on my belly—instinct, habit, something deeper I can't name. And then, as if on cue, they kick.

Hard.

Once.

Twice.

I gasp, soft and sharp, eyes going wide.

Edward's already moving. "What?"

"They're kicking," I whisper, stunned. A smile pulls at my lips as I press my hand just beneath my ribs. "Both of them."

He drops to his knees beside me like the moment commands it. His hand finds my bump, strong and gentle, like he's listening for something only he can hear.

Another kick. Then another.

His eyes never leave my belly. He's still, like the entire world has narrowed to this.

"They like it here," I say, quieter now. Like a secret I'm only just starting to believe.

He nods slowly, eyes full. "How much?"

Dominique says the number. High, of course. The kind that makes most people step back.

Edward doesn't.

Instead, his thumb brushes over my stomach, almost like he's telling them, I'll give you this. All of it.

Alice leans against the fridge, smirking. "Call it an investment."

Jasper steps in from the garden, brushing off his hands. "Call it home."

I look around. The light. The creaking floors. The wind moving through open windows. It doesn't just look real—it feels like it's been waiting for us.

Edward rises beside me, quiet and certain, his hand finding mine like it's instinct.

"I think we can stop looking," I whisper.

He doesn't speak right away. Just laces our fingers tighter, like he's holding onto something more than my hand.

Then he turns to Dominique, voice steady. "We'll take it."

And just like that, it's decided.

Not because it's flawless.

Not because it's grand.

Because it feels like home.

A place to breathe.

A place to begin.

Thanks for reading.