You’ve barely made it through the door of the rec center—already decorated in gold, lilac, and way too many balloons—before Elias has you tucked under his arm like it’s his personal mission. His grill flashes every time someone shouts “congratulations,” and his hand keeps drifting to your belly like he just remembered he helped make an entire human.

He’s glowing. Actually glowing.

Meanwhile Smoke is hovering nearby, eyes watchful like he’s been assigned security.

“Bruh, slow down,” Smoke mutters as Elias insists on introducing you again to Auntie Renee who has known you since you and Elias were merely “talking.”

“I’m just excited,” he says, chest puffed with pride.

“You ain’t the one carrying the baby,” Smoke reminds him—earning a smack from Annie as she floats by, adjusting a banner that reads “Baby Moore—Blessed Already.”

Annie is radiant and unbothered, apron tied around her waist, already accepting compliments for every dish like she didn’t spend the last 48 hours cooking. The spread is immaculate: greens, mac, peach cobbler cooling in the back, rolls still steaming, and yes—baby shower meatballs, glistening like they know their role is essential.

Old folks are already settled at a card table, arguing over spades like they’re playing for the deed to the building. Somebody’s uncle claiming he still ain’t been paid back from a bet made in ‘92. The old ladies clap and cackle, side-eyes sharp enough to slice cake.

Kids run around between tables, cheeks sticky from juice boxes, arguing over who gets the neon balloon swords left from the decorations. Someone’s cousin starts a mini Soul Train line when Solange comes on, hips swaying like sunlight. Then Luther hits and the room softens—shoulders relax, plates pile up, folks humming like Sunday morning.

Your friends circle you for pictures, their voices loud with joy, and you catch Elias watching you like he’s memorizing every second. When he reaches you, he presses a kiss to your temple—whisper light, full of meaning.

“She gon’ look just like you,” he murmurs.

“She?” Smoke repeats from behind him, shaking his head. “It’s a boy. Already told you.”

Annie nods, arms crossed, confident. “Boy energy. I can feel it.”

Sammie, lounging nearby, shrugs. “I just want the baby to have eyebrows.”

Everybody stares, then laughs until their stomachs hurt.

At gift-opening time, Stack refuses to sit—he stands behind you, both hands resting on your shoulders like he’s anchoring himself to this moment. Every tiny onesie makes him get weirdly emotional. You swear you see him tear up at the miniature sneakers.

“Y’all look at that. Look!” he says, holding them up like he’s presenting Simba on Pride Rock.

Smoke leans close, whispering, “You embarrassing us,” but his eyes are shining too.

Under the soft glow of twinkle lights, surrounded by family—chosen and blood—you feel wrapped in something warm, bigger than celebration.