Tom Wambsgans’s apartment is tidy, but no longer sterile.

It still has that defensive neatness—surfaces cleared, corners squared—but warmth has crept in around the edges. A citrus-and-ginger candle burns on the console table, bright and grounding, cutting through the usual museum-clean smell. There’s a throw blanket folded over the back of the couch, soft and unmistakably personal. If anyone looks closely—and Kendall will—they’ll realize it’s patterned with an enlarged image of handwritten vows. Not wedding vows. Practice vows. Tom’s looping, overthought script repeating in faded ink like a confession he never quite erased.

You sit beneath it, feet tucked in, mug warming your palms. The coffee table holds more than coasters now: a couple of prenatal vitamin bottles pushed neatly to one side, labels turned half-away but not hidden. A stack of mail. A slim book on pregnancy that Tom definitely pretended not to buy.

Near the wall—too large to ignore if you know what you’re seeing—are the boxed components of a bassinet. Still sealed. Waiting.

Tom keeps glancing at you like he’s grounding himself.

Kendall arrives first, pacing almost immediately. Roman follows, eyes darting, clocking the changes before he even understands them. Shiv comes last.

She stops dead.

Her gaze flicks from you to the couch, the blanket, the candle, the boxes.

“…What the fuck is this?” she asks, lightly. Too lightly.

Tom doesn’t joke.

“Thanks for coming,” he says, hands clasped. Calm. Measured. “I wanted witnesses.”

Roman squints. “Did you… redecorate? Wow. Domestic Tom. Hate it. Fascinated.”

Shiv doesn’t sit. “Tom.”

“I’m getting there,” he says gently, which is new. Dangerous.

You feel the shift. Kendall stills. Roman quiets. Shiv senses the ambush.

Tom gestures to you. “This is someone I love.”

Shiv lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Okay. And?”

“And she’s pregnant.”

The words crack the room open.

Roman’s mouth opens. Closes. “—Oh.”

Kendall exhales. “Jesus.”

Shiv’s face goes perfectly still.

“With my child,” Tom adds. No hesitation.

Silence.

“You made it clear we weren’t together,” Tom continues evenly. “You wanted freedom. I believed you.”

Shiv scoffs. “You weren’t supposed to—this wasn’t—”

“Real?” Tom cuts in, finally looking at her. “It is to me.”

He moves closer to you—not possessive, just certain. His choice.

“I’ve already set money aside,” he says. “For a house. Somewhere with trees. A school district people don’t joke about. There’s a trust fund. It’s done.”

Kendall blinks. “You planned.”

“Yes,” Tom says. “Because I’m going to be a father. And a partner.”

Shiv laughs, brittle. “So you’re just—leaving?”

“I’m not leaving you,” he says quietly. “You already left me. I’m just… not waiting anymore.”

Roman gestures weakly at the bassinet boxes. “Jesus. He’s nesting.”

You finally speak. “I didn’t ask him to do any of this.”

Tom’s hand finds yours, steady. Warm.

“But I’m glad I did,” he says.

Shiv looks at you then—really looks. At the blanket. The vitamins. The life already taking up space.

“You think this ends well?” she asks.