#17 You and Me Always (book 2)

Carson

I barely get the door open before Kayce barrels through with a box labeled “KENZ’S CLOSET—DO NOT CRUSH” in bold pink Sharpie.

“Yo, where do you want this fashion tornado?” he calls out, stepping over a baby bouncer still in its box and a rogue burp cloth.

“In the closet, genius,” I mutter, grunting as I shift Emerson’s car seat from the center of the living room to the coffee table so she’s not in the direct war path of a thousand flying boxes.

“Hey!” Mackenzie calls from the hallway. “Be gentle with that one, it has my good leggings.”

“You mean the ones that all mysteriously disappeared when we started dating?” I ask, tossing her a grin as I pass by with a box of my own stuff—mostly football gear and a PlayStation.

She smirks and adjusts her messy bun with one hand while balancing a diaper bag on the other shoulder like the goddess of multitasking. “Maybe I liked the way they looked on you.”

I set the box down with a thud in our small bedroom, shaking my head. “This is supposed to be my victory lap. Starting quarterback. Full scholarship. And yet somehow, I’m still being bullied by a girl in leggings.”

“You’re being bullied by your baby mama,” she fires back, leaning against the doorframe, that little smug smile on her lips. “Big difference.”

From the living room, Emerson lets out a tiny grunt like she agrees with her mom, her face all scrunched up under her pink hat. Nikki—saint Nikki—kneels beside her car seat, wiggling her fingers at her.

“I swear,” she coos, “you’re the only calm person in this whole apartment right now.”

“Makes sense,” Kayce says, walking past with another box. “She’s got a better social life than I do.”

Kenz’s dad helps unpack the kitchen, and my mom is doing what she does best—hovering over a checklist while simultaneously trying to reorganize our pantry. My dad is busy setting up the crib, mumbling about missing screws and Allen wrenches under his breath.

It’s loud. It’s cluttered. It smells like baby lotion, takeout, and new paint.

But it’s ours.

“Hey,” I say, slipping behind Kenz as she tries to hang up a string of Polaroids over Emerson’s crib. I wrap my arms around her waist, resting my chin on her shoulder. “We really did this.”

She leans back into me, warm and soft and tired in that way we both are now. “We really did.”

“You’re sure about this, right?” I ask, quieter now. “Juggling college, a baby, gymnastics if you go back…me disappearing half the day for practice…”

She turns in my arms and tips up on her toes just enough to kiss me.

“I was sure the second she was born,” she says. “And I’m still sure now.”

Across the room, Emerson hiccups and lets out a tiny squawk. The moment’s gone, but I still feel it in my chest.

Kayce walks in right on cue, clapping me on the back. “Alright, quarterback, break’s over. You still got a mountain of boxes with your name on ‘em. Or do you want your daughter growing up thinking her dad can’t carry his own stuff?”

Kenz laughs, brushing past me. “He already whines more than she does.”

“Love you too,” I call after her, but I’m smiling.

Because we’re here. Because this is real.

“You realize,” Kayce says, peeling tape off yet another mystery box, “this is basically a grown-up sleepover, except now we have boobs and diapers involved.”

Mackenzie freezes mid-swipe of a Clorox wipe across the bathroom vanity. “I don’t even wanna know what part of that sentence you meant to be innocent.”

“I meant the baby!” Kayce shouts defensively. “Obviously.”

“You literally said boobs and diapers, Kase,” Kenz deadpans.

He grins, unbothered. “Still accurate.”

I shake my head, tugging a bag of football cleats out of a box labeled “CARSON’S STUFF – aka man junk,” which has to be Kenz’s doing.

“Dude, what’s in this one?” Kayce asks, trying to pick up a medium-sized box near the couch. “It’s heavier than your ego after a win.”

I walk over and read the side. “Oh…that’s breast pump stuff.”

Kayce yelps and drops it like it’s radioactive. “Nope. Nope. You should’ve led with that.”

“You were the one diving in without permission,” I say, elbowing him. “Classic Kayce move.”

“Still less embarrassing than your mom finding your stash of—”

“Dude!” I bark, cutting him off with a glare. Kenz’s already smirking over by the bassinet, like she knows.

“Too late,” she sings, holding up a very familiar old t-shirt I’d forgotten I even packed. “Also, if this is what you wore the night Emerson was conceived…good job.”

“That’s it,” I mutter, snatching it from her. “No more unpacking help from you.”

“Wouldn’t need help if you labeled your stuff like a normal human,” Kenz teases. “Not like—what did I see earlier—‘important charger things’? What does that even mean?”

“It means it’s important and it charges things,” I mumble.

Kayce flops dramatically onto the couch. “You two bicker like a married couple.”

Mackenzie shrugs. “We made a human together. At this point, that’s stronger than marriage.”

“Yeah, but now we also live together,” I add. “Which means if I leave socks on the floor, I might wake up with them taped to my forehead.”

“Not might,” Kenz mutters from the kitchen.

Kayce whistles, eyes bouncing between us like we’re a live sitcom. “This is better than Netflix.”

“You’re not helping,” I say, tossing a rolled-up pair of baby socks at his face.

“I’m here for moral support, comedic relief, and heavy lifting,” he says. “And occasional diaper duty if I’m bribed with enough pizza.”

A loud thud echoes from the other room. Kenz’s dad sticks his head around the corner.

“All good,” he says calmly. “Just your curtain rod falling out of the wall. Nothing drywall can’t forgive.”

Kenz groans. “This apartment’s gonna need therapy after us.”

I glance down at Emerson in her little car seat, still somehow napping through the madness like a champ.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” I whisper to her.

Kase leans over to look at her too. “Do you think she’s gonna grow up and be normal, or more like us?”

Kenz walks in with a box of books and her phone tucked between her cheek and shoulder. “With you as honorary uncle? Definitely weird.”

I chuckle, reaching out to catch the teetering pile of towels as Kayce blindly walks backward into them.

Boxes, bickering, baby gear, and sarcasm flying like confetti.

It’s chaos.

It’s home.

And honestly? It’s kinda perfect.

The sun’s starting to dip low outside the living room window, casting long golden streaks across the floor scattered with empty boxes, packing paper, and an abandoned diaper bag. Emerson lets out a tiny grunt from her car seat like she’s equally unimpressed with our progress.

Nikki emerges from the bedroom, hair up in a messy bun and a box of towels under one arm. “Okay. Linens are in the closet, the crib is mostly not wobbly, and I didn’t strangle Kayce once. Where’s my trophy?”

“Your trophy is not having to sit next to Kayce during pizza,” Kenz says, handing her a La Croix from the fridge. “It’s all I can offer you right now.”

“Rude,” Kayce mutters, wiping his forehead with the hem of his shirt before flinging himself onto the armchair like he’s run a marathon. “I personally think I’ve been a joy to be around all day.”

“You personally haven’t lifted anything heavier than a box of baby wipes,” I point out.

“I lifted morale,” he shoots back. “That’s way heavier.”

“Did you order the pizza?” Kenz asks him pointedly.

He points at me. “That was quarterback duty.”

I blink. “You literally said I got this before I even opened the app.”

“And I got distracted by Emerson’s cute face. Don’t blame me, blame her.”

“She’s only a month old, she’s allowed to be distracting,” Mackenzie says, crouching to unbuckle Emerson from her car seat.

Our daughter stretches like a little starfish, fists curled tight and her onesie riding up over one pudgy thigh. Kenz scoops her up with practiced ease, resting Emerson against her shoulder.

“She did nothing wrong.”

Kayce shrugs. “I still vote baby over responsibility.”

Nikki glares. “The baby is the responsibility.”

He turns to me, dead serious. “Is this what having a kid is like? Everyone always mad at you even when you’re kinda cute?”

“Exactly,” I say, grabbing my phone. “That’s why I married up.”

Kenz snorts. “You are not married.”

“Yet.” I shoot her a wink that earns me an eye roll and a faint blush.

“Please don’t start making out again in front of the pizza guy,” Nikki says, collapsing next to Kayce. “Last time that poor delivery kid almost walked into traffic.”

“I gave him a tip!” I argue.

“Yeah, because you felt bad after you shoved Mackenzie into the pantry mid-makeout and knocked over a bag of flour.”

Kenz covers her face, giggling. “He’s never allowed to go near dry goods again.”

Kayce sighs dramatically. “This is the most entertaining roommate sitcom I never asked to be part of.”

“Then leave,” Nikki says, tossing a couch cushion at him.

He catches it. “I can’t. I’m invested now.”

The doorbell rings and we all freeze like someone just won bingo.

“PIZZA!” Kayce bellows like we’re at war.

“Don’t scare the baby,” Kenz hisses as I jog to the door.

I open it to reveal a college-age guy who already looks mildly overwhelmed. He hands me two massive boxes and says, “Um…your baby waved at me.”

I glance down. Emerson’s arm is flopping around from Kenz’s shoulder, more twitch than wave. I give the kid a wink and a big tip anyway. “She’s charismatic like her mom.”

Kenz raises an eyebrow. “Or chaotic like her dad.”

“Let’s go with both,” I say, shutting the door.

We set the pizza on the coffee table (barely cleared of bottle parts and half a burp cloth) and dig in like wolves. Nikki groans in satisfaction. “This is what heaven tastes like.”

“I’d say heaven tastes like Mackenzie’s brownies,” Kayce says with a mouth full of crust, “but I don’t wanna get punched for bringing up how good she is with her hands.”

Kenz grabs a napkin and throws it directly into his face. “Kayce.”

“What? It was a compliment.” He smiles.

I just laugh, settling in beside Kenz and wrapping one arm around her while she balances a slice in one hand and Emerson in the other.

Boxes everywhere, pizza grease on our fingers, baby nestled against her chest like she belongs there—and she does.

It’s not perfect. It’s messy and loud and makeshift.

But it’s ours.

Nikki and Kayce eventually leave with promises of helping unpack more tomorrow.

It’s quiet now.

Too quiet, honestly, after a whole day of cardboard avalanches, sarcastic jabs, baby grunts, and Kayce nearly breaking our coffee table with a dramatic collapse.

Now it’s just dim lamplight and the soft hum of the fridge. Boxes line the walls like spectators, half-unpacked and slouching open like they gave up halfway through. Emerson’s asleep in the bassinet beside the couch, arms sprawled like she won some tiny victory. She probably did.

Kenz’s curled up at the other end of the couch, legs tucked under her, an oversized hoodie swallowing her frame—the black one with my number on the back that she basically lived in senior year. Hair still damp from a quick shower, eyes soft and tired as she watches Emerson breathe.

I stretch my legs across the floor, my back against the couch. One hand rests lightly on Emerson’s bassinet as if to reassure myself she’s real. That all of this is real.

“We did it,” I murmur.

Kenz lets out a quiet laugh. “Define did it. Half our stuff’s still in boxes, Emerson’s schedule is chaos, and Kayce almost lit our microwave on fire trying to ‘test the wattage.’”

I smile, not moving. “Yeah, but we survived day one.”

Her gaze shifts to me. “Barely.”

“But together,” I say.

That gets me a real smile, sleepy and sweet. She leans over to nudge her foot against my leg. “You’re such a sap.”

“You married a sap,” I say.

She raises her eyebrows. “Again, not married.”

“Yet.” I smile.

She rolls her eyes, but her cheeks flush just a little. “You’re really clinging to that word lately.”

“I’m allowed to think about the future, right?” I glance up at her. “You and me. Emy. This—everything.”

Kenz’s quiet for a moment, then nods. “Yeah. You’re allowed.”

She slides down from the couch and sits beside me on the floor, her shoulder brushing mine. Her head leans into my chest like muscle memory.

I wrap an arm around her and kiss her hair, inhaling that smell that somehow manages to be shampoo, baby, and comfort all at once.

We sit in silence, watching Emerson’s little chest rise and fall.

“She has your nose,” I say.

Kenz laughs softly. “Poor girl.”

I shake my head. “No, it’s cute. Tiny and buttony and completely unfair. I’m gonna have to fight off a whole generation of future suitors.”

“She’s a month old,” she mutters through a yawn.

“Still. Planning ahead,” I say.

Mackenzie looks up at me, eyes glassy with exhaustion but still bright. “Promise me something?”

“Anything.”

“No matter how crazy things get—school, football, gymnastics, parenthood—we don’t let this…us…fade. We make time. For each other.”

I nod without hesitation. “Always. You and me, baby.”

She smiles, then leans in and kisses me, slow and soft. No urgency. Just that warm, grounding kind of love that settles in your chest and stays there.

Emerson lets out a tiny sigh in her sleep, like even she’s content.

And for the first time in what feels like weeks, I exhale and feel the weight lift.

Our life is barely unpacked. We’re figuring it out one messy, uncertain step at a time.

But in this tiny apartment, surrounded by love and takeout and blankets we haven’t found a home for yet—

It already feels like home.