The nursery looked like a pastel-colored war zone — open paint cans, tiny socks already scattered somehow, a half-built crib in the middle of the floor. JJ was in full daddy-to-be mode: drill in hand, hair a mess, dimples out every time he caught your eye. You were five months in and feeling fine, but he still kept telling you to sit down every ten minutes, like he’d read it in some secret baby manual. You stood by the doorway, one hand under your belly, the other holding a glass of ice water. Your bump was obvious now, pressing softly against the fabric of one of JJ’s old tees you’d practically claimed as your own.

The Pogues were all here, obviously. Sarah was putting up wall decals at a very questionable angle. Cleo and Kiara were arguing about basket placement. Pope was trying to assemble something that might’ve once been a mobile. John B had locked himself in the closet for a solid five minutes, shouting “I’m fine!” every time someone asked if he needed help.

JJ, though? He was glowing — in his own chaotic way. Starting three different projects at once. Repeating “kiddo’s gonna love this” like it was his new catchphrase.

"Yo, I was thinking," he said suddenly, turning toward you mid-screw. “What if we paint a lil sun over the crib? Like, right above it? Baby’s first sunrise, you know?”

You smiled, heart warm. “Sure. As long as you don’t use spray paint inside the house again.”

“That was one time,” he shot back with a grin. “And the fumes weren’t even that bad—”

“—I literally passed out,” Pope muttered, making everyone chuckle softly.

And through all the chaos, one thing was clear: this baby was already so loved.