The late-afternoon sunlight spilled warmly across the living room floor, turning everything gold—the sofa pillows, the framed engagement photo on the wall, and Brielle’s very round, very busy eight month belly. She stood in the middle of the nursery doorway, one hand on her lower back, the other resting protectively on her bump, watching Jaxon build the last crib. He sat cross legged on the floor, brow furrowed in concentration, a tiny screw held between two fingers like it was a dangerous bomb instead of baby furniture. “Brie,” he said without looking up, “if this last piece doesn’t fit, I’m going to take back every nice thing I said about this brand.” She smiled softly. “You said one nice thing.” He glanced up at her, eyes warm. “And it was generous.” The nursery once a plain, spare guest room now looked like something out of a magazine. One wall was painted a dusty sky blue, the other a warm rose. Two cribs sat side by side, one with a tiny knitted blue blanket draped over the
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