Page 79 of Knot My Type

The flood of emotions is overwhelming—joy, terror, excitement, anxiety, and underneath it all, a deep sense of rightness. This is what we've been building toward, even if we didn't realize it. This is the next chapter in our story.

I don't realize I'm crying until a tear falls onto the test result, and then I'm sobbing with the kind of emotion that comes from life-changing moments. Happy tears, grateful tears, overwhelmed tears for the family we're about to expand in the most fundamental way possible.

"Eliana?" Kael's voice comes from the doorway, rough with sleep and concern. "What's wrong?"

I look up to see all three of them crowded in the doorway, having clearly been woken by my crying. Their hair is sticking up at impossible angles, and they're wearing various combinations of pajamas and concerned expressions.

"Nothing's wrong," I manage through my tears, holding up the test so they can see the results. "Everything's right. Everything's perfect."

The silence that follows is profound, all three of them staring at the small plastic stick like it holds the secrets of the universe. Which, in a way, it does.

"Are you..." Fen starts, then stops, his voice catching on the words.

"Pregnant," I confirm, the word feeling strange and wonderful and terrifying on my tongue. "About six weeks, I think."

And then I'm being scooped up and spun around and kissed and cried over and celebrated in the way that only these men can manage. They're asking questions and making plans and arguing over baby names all at the same time, their excitement infectious and overwhelming and absolutely perfect.

"Are you happy?" Rhys asks when the initial chaos settles, his hands framing my face as he searches my expression.

"Terrified," I admit honestly. "But yes, incredibly happy. Are you?"

"Ecstatic," he says immediately. "All of us. We're going to have a baby."

"We're going to have a baby," I repeat, testing the words. They feel right, natural, like something we've been preparing for without realizing it.

The rest of the morning dissolves into planning and dreaming and the kind of giddy excitement that comes with major life changes. We call our doctor to schedule an appointment, research pregnancy books and baby gear, and argue good-naturedly about whether the nursery should go in the spare room or if we should convert the office space upstairs.

"We'll need a bigger dining table," Fen observes at one point, his practical nature asserting itself. "And probably a minivan."

"A minivan?" Kael looks genuinely horrified.

"We'll need the space," Fen insists. "Car seats, strollers, diaper bags, all the stuff that comes with babies."

"We'll get an SUV," Kael compromises. "Something with three rows of seats but not completely suburban."

I find myself laughing at their earnest discussion of family vehicles, struck by how quickly they've shifted into planning mode. These men, who have built their entire lives around careful preparation and risk assessment, are already thinking through the logistics of expanding our family.

"We should probably wait to tell people," I say during a brief lull in the planning frenzy. "At least until we see the doctor, make sure everything's progressing normally."

"Whatever you want," Rhys agrees immediately. "Though Rebecca's going to know something's up if you suddenly stop drinking wine at dinner."

He's right. Rebecca has an uncanny ability to read my moods, and pregnancy hormones are already making me more emotional than usual. But I want to keep this precious secret for a little while longer, want to savor this moment when it's just ours.

"We'll tell her soon," I promise. "Maybe after the first doctor's appointment."

The next few weeks pass in a blur of morning sickness, prenatal vitamins, and the kind of careful attention from my partners that's both touching and occasionally overwhelming. They've become hyperprotective overnight, insisting on carrying anything heavier than a coffee cup and researching pregnancy nutrition with the intensity they usually reserve for security assessments.

It's endearing, mostly, though I have to put my foot down when Kael suggests I should stop traveling for book events.

"Pregnancy isn't a disability," I remind him firmly. "Women work and travel and live normal lives while pregnant all the time."

"But you're not just any woman," he argues. "You're our woman, carrying our child. That makes you precious cargo."

The possessive protectiveness in his voice sends a flutter through me that has nothing to do with morning sickness. "I'm still me, Kael. Still capable of making my own decisions about what I can and can't handle."

It's an ongoing negotiation, finding the balance between their need to protect and my need to maintain independence. But we're learning, adapting, figuring out how to navigate this new phase of our relationship with the same patience and communication that's carried us through everything else.

The first ultrasound appointment arrives on a Tuesday morning in late October, the mountains dusted with the first snow of the season. All three men insist on coming, which leads to an interesting conversation with the receptionist about family dynamics and waiting room capacity.

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