Page 84 of Breakaway Daddies

I want their stupid bickering and Bruno’s over-buttered toast and Rowan’s late-night ranting about the water heater and Thomas’ sock collection that is somehoweverywhere, always.

I want all the chaos. The loudness. The comfort. The love.

I want them.

I exhale slowly, like maybe I can breathe out all the fear and indecision, make room for something steadier. Something braver.

Then I pick up my phone and type back:

>> Can you guys keep them from murdering each other for like 48 hours?

Kenzie >> No promises, but we’ll try.

Ally >> Wait… does this mean what I think it means??

I don’t answer. Not yet.

Instead, I sit up, swing my legs over the edge of the bed, and grab the little notepad off my desk—the one I use for impulsive art ideas and half-finished to-do lists. I flip to a blank page and scribble one sentence in big block letters:

You know what you want. Stop pretending you don’t.

Then I underline it twice.

Because maybe the path forward is still messy and weird and full of hard conversations. But at least now, I know which direction I want to walk.

I grin, slow and wide, the kind of grin I haven’t worn in weeks, the kind that usually leads to questionable decisions and great stories. It’s the kind of grin that means I’m about to do something veryme.

“I can fix this,” I say aloud. The words buzz in the air, sharp and bright like the first strum of a punk guitar. “And I can do it in style.”

My brain’s already racing a mile a minute. This can’t be some quiet little apology. That’s not our style. That’s notmystyle. If I’m gonna do this, I’m going full throttle, big, loud, and heartfelt enough to knock the wind out of all three of them.

I grab my phone and start scrolling, ordering supplies like a woman possessed. Paint pens. Poster board. Temporary pink hair dye… because why the hell not?

If I’m making a scene, I might as well look the part. Maybe even throw on that old “Love is Chaos” crop top I never got rid of.

Oof.

Okay, maybe not the crop top. My stomach is starting to swell just enough for it to ride up in a way that’s less punk rebel and more confused belly dancer.

But I’m doing this.

No more running. No more hiding behind excuses. I’m pregnant, I’m terrified, and I’m in love with three ridiculous, beautiful men who deserve to hear that out loud.

From me. In a way, they won’t forget.

I tug my chaos jacket out of the closet, the denim one covered in safety pins, scribbles, and that patch that says“Keep your heart wild.”Yeah. That feels about right.

“Let’s make some goddamn art,” I murmur, pulling it on like armor.

It’s time to go win them back… with glitter, probably too much paint, and absolutely no chill.

CHAPTERTWENTY-SIX

Rowan

I’m officially backon the ice.

Finally.

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