Page 70 of Knot My Type

"Now I can imagine it," I say, my voice growing stronger as I speak. "I can imagine a baby with Kael's dark hair and stubborn streak, or one with your green eyes and easy charm, or one with Fen's quiet wisdom and gentle heart. I can imagine all of us raising them together, teaching them, loving them."

The words surprise me with their certainty, with how right they feel even as they terrify me with their implications.

"But not right away," I continue quickly. "I want some time for us to settle into this, to make sure we can make the relationship work before we add that kind of complexity."

"That's smart," Kael agrees. "And completely reasonable. There's no rush for any of that."

"But if it happens accidentally?" I ask, because I need to know where we all stand. "If despite precautions, if the bond makes prevention less effective than usual—what then?"

The question hangs in the air between us, weighted with possibility and fear and hope all tangled together.

"Then we figure it out together," Fen says simply. "Same as everything else."

"You wouldn't be doing it alone," Rhys adds. "Any of it. The pregnancy, the birth, the raising—all of it would be shared."

"We'd be good at it," Kael says with quiet confidence. "Not perfect, probably not even close. But we'd love them, and we'd love you, and we'd figure out the rest as we went."

The certainty in his voice, echoed in the faces of the other two, makes my chest tight with emotion. These men, who barely two months ago were strangers, are talking about hypothetical children with the same steady commitment they've shown to everything else about our relationship.

"Okay," I say, my voice thick with unshed tears. "Okay, I can live with that plan."

"Good," Rhys says, reaching over to squeeze my ankle gently. "Because we're really hoping you can live with all of our plans."

The comment makes me laugh despite the emotional intensity of the conversation. "So far so good."

"Speaking of plans," Fen says, shifting slightly so he can see all of our faces, "we should probably talk about the day-to-day stuff too. Chores, responsibilities, how we divide up the domestic labor."

"That's easy," Kael says immediately. "We all contribute equally. Cooking, cleaning, maintenance, errands—everything gets shared."

"What about your writing time?" Rhys asks me. "You'll need space and quiet for that, especially if you're also helping with the business."

The consideration, the automatic assumption that my creative work is important enough to protect and prioritize, makes my heart squeeze with gratitude.

"The spare room upstairs could be converted into an office," I suggest. "It gets good light, and it's far enough from the main living areas that I wouldn't be disturbed by normal household noise."

"Perfect," Fen agrees. "We can set that up next week. Get you a proper desk, good lighting, whatever you need."

"And bookshelves," I add, already envisioning the space. "Lots and lots of bookshelves."

"Obviously," Kael says with mock seriousness. "What kind of monsters do you think we are?"

The easy acceptance, the immediate embrace of my needs and interests as part of their planning, feels like another small miracle. I'm not being asked to fit into their existing life—we're all creating something new together, something that makes space for all of our individual needs and desires.

"There's one more thing," I say, struck by a sudden thought. "What do we tell people? About us, I mean. About how this works."

It's a practical question, but also a deeply personal one. How do we navigate a world that doesn't have easy categories for relationships like ours? How do we handle everything from casual introductions to legal paperwork to family gatherings?

"The truth," Rhys says simply. "As much or as little as any given situation requires, but always the truth."

"Some people won't understand," I point out.

"Some people don't understand lots of things," Kael counters. "That doesn't make those things wrong."

"What about your families?" I ask, suddenly realizing I know almost nothing about their backgrounds, their people, their histories before this house.

The question creates a moment of awkward silence, and I see glances exchanged that suggest complicated histories.

"My parents died when I was young," Fen says quietly. "Car accident. I was raised by my grandmother, and she passed away a few years ago. No siblings, no other close family."

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