The new house sat just a few streets from the Ellington family home—close enough that Coretta could appear with food “just because,” and far enough that Eddie could still pretend he had privacy when he absolutely did not.

It was one of those Georgia houses that looked like it had been waiting for people to soften it again. Pale siding, a wide front porch, and a yard already halfway claimed by stubborn grass and wildflowers refusing to behave.

Inside, everything still smelled faintly like cardboard and fresh paint.

Boxes lined the hallway like a soft obstacle course.

And right in the middle of it all—

“Owen is absolutely thriving,” Eddie declared.

He stood in the living room holding your four-month-old son like a trophy he was not emotionally prepared for.

Owen was, in fact, thriving.

Chunky cheeks. Soft rolls at his wrists. A belly that made his onesie stretch just slightly in the most offensive way possible. He had Eddie’s curls already doing their own chaotic thing, but his skin was warm brown like yours, glowing in the sunlight pouring through the half-bare windows.

He looked like joy had decided to become a person.

Eddie Munson adjusted his grip carefully as Owen grabbed a fistful of his shirt like it was a life raft.

“I think he owns me now,” Eddie added seriously.

From the kitchen, Rosalie Ellington called out, “He owned you the moment you named him Owen.”

“I didn’t name him alone!” Eddie shot back.

“You agreed,” she corrected.

You leaned against the counter, watching all of it unfold with the quiet satisfaction of someone who knew exactly how this would go. The new kitchen light made everything look softer than it should, like the house was still learning how to be lived in.

Behind you, Coretta Ellington was already unpacking things she had not been asked to unpack. Somewhere in the hallway, Wayne Munson was silently assembling furniture like a man who refused to admit he was emotionally invested in a bookshelf.

Owen made a small noise—half complaint, half demand.

Eddie immediately responded, “Yes, I hear you. The world is unacceptable. I agree.”

You smiled. “He’s hungry.”

“He’s always hungry,” Eddie said, bouncing him slightly. “He’s like a tiny Victorian orphan but… well-fed.”

Rosalie passed through the room carrying a box labeled KITCHEN – DO NOT LOSE, immediately opened it, and started reorganizing it. “That’s your son.”

“My son has ambition,” Eddie insisted.

Coretta glanced over. “He has rolls.”

“Same thing,” Eddie said without hesitation.

Owen grabbed Eddie’s finger with surprising strength, pulling it toward his mouth like it had personally offended him and required investigation.

Eddie froze. “Okay. That’s fair. I would also bite me.”

You stepped closer, taking Owen gently from his arms. The moment he transferred into your hold, he settled slightly—still alert, still opinionated, but calmer in a way that made Eddie exhale like he’d just passed a test.

“He likes you better,” Eddie muttered.

“He likes stability,” you corrected softly.

Eddie pointed at himself. “I am stability.”

Rosalie made a sound that could only be described as disbelief.

From the porch, Wayne’s voice drifted in. “Y’all need help with that couch or are you just gonna stare at it all day?”

“I’m bonding with the furniture,” Eddie called back.

“That couch ain’t gonna bond back,” Wayne replied.

Thaddeus Ellington appeared in the doorway a moment later, hands behind his back, taking in the chaos with the calm of a man who had seen far worse in courtrooms but still found domestic disorder mildly fascinating.

“So,” he said, looking around. “This is the beginning.”

Eddie nodded solemnly. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Coretta placed a hand on your shoulder briefly as she passed. “It’s a good house,” she said simply. “It just needs people in it.”

Owen yawned in your arms, the kind of full-body baby yawn that made everyone in the room pause without realizing it.

Eddie leaned closer to you both. “He’s already exhausted from moving day and he didn’t even lift a box.”

“He supervised,” Rosalie corrected.