[Selene’s POV]
Three weeks later, and I'm drowning in packing tape and boxes that seem to multiply when I'm not looking.
The dust settled. Cassian went quiet—reputation too damaged for revenge. The media moved on to newer scandals. Management let me keep my job with minimal threats.
Small victories.
Now I'm packing while Naomi provides running commentary from the couch, Sören on her lap examining bubble wrap like it's ancient scripture containing the meaning of life.
"So let me get this straight," she says, popping bubbles with methodical precision. "You went from 'I'm never trusting men again, all men are trash, I'm becoming a hermit' to 'surprise, moving in with two professional athletes' in—what, two years?"
"Two years is a reasonable timeline for major life decisions."
"You bought those hideous lime green shoes in seven minutes."
"They're chartreuse. And they were on sale."
"They're a crime. My point is, you've made weirder decisions faster. Two years ago you were crying into cereal boxes. Now you're moving in with two men who might be your babies' fathers but we're all pretending DNA doesn't exist."
"Things are already complicated. We're picking out battles."
She grins, squeezing my hand. "This is brave. Terrifying and potentially catastrophic, but brave."
"Your motivational speaking needs work."
"I'm keeping it real. Also, I'm proud of you." Sören tries eating the bubble wrap. She extracts it gently. "Are you sure about this? Not doubting—just sisterly due diligence."
I survey the chaos. Half my life in boxes, the other half scattered like evidence of breakdown. "Terrified. But more scared of not doing this. Of playing it safe."
"Good answer." She shifts Sören. "So how does it actually work? Three adults, three babies, one household."
"We've been planning. Co-parenting arrangements, schedules, who does what when. No paternity tests—we decided that together. All three babies belong to all three of us. Period."
"And the three of you? How does that work?"
"It just does." I tape another box, trying to find words for something that doesn't fit standard relationship templates.
"It's not like we sat down and negotiated terms. It just evolved. Slowly. Naturally. Like one day I looked up and realized they're together—Axel and Mateo—and I'm with both of them, and we're all somehow together in this weird configuration that probably needs a geometry degree to diagram but works for us."
Naomi's smile is knowing. "So it's a thruple situation."
"It's a 'we're figuring it out as we go' situation. Polyamorous, I guess, if we need official terminology. But mostly it's just us."
"I love that for you. Genuinely." She stands, Sören immediately protesting the movement change. "And I love that you're not overthinking it for once in your life. Just living it."
The front door opens—Axel and Mateo arriving with the tactical precision of people who've moved twice already this year.
"We brought reinforcements," Mateo announces, holding up his phone. "Also pizza for later because I'm planning ahead like a responsible adult human."
"You've literally never planned ahead," Axel says, already surveying boxes with analytical horror. "This is chaos. We need a system."
"I have a system. It's called 'everything goes in boxes until I run out of boxes.'"
"That's not a system, that's entropy with cardboard assistance."
"Entropy is a perfectly valid organizational philosophy—"
"It's literally the opposite of organization."
I watch them bicker—comfortable, familiar, that easy rhythm they've developed. Mateo's already reorganizing my book boxes, pulling out volumes with commentary.
"Why do you own three copies of The Great Gatsby?"
"Different editions. One's annotated, one's collectible, one's readable."
"Unhinged. I respect it."
Naomi checks her phone. "I've got to grab something for my shift. Sören, baby, you're staying with Mama." She deposits him in the playpen with his siblings, who immediately investigate whether he's brought anything interesting back from Auntie Naomi's lap.
"I'll be back tomorrow for the actual move," she tells me, pulling on her jacket. "Try not to have any emotional breakthroughs without me. I want to witness them live."
After she leaves, we fall into rhythm—Mateo's chaotic energy balanced by Axel's methodical organizing, me somewhere in between trying to keep us on task.
"I need to grab the labels from our place," Mateo says an hour later, checking boxes. "We definitely bought labels. Axel insisted."
"Organization is not optional."
"Organization is a prison construct. But fine, I'll get the labels." He stands, stretches, then does something that's become so normal I almost don't notice: kisses Axel quickly—casual, automatic, the way you kiss your partner when leaving—then crosses to me and does the same.
The front door clicks shut.
I catch myself smiling at that casual intimacy—how it evolved naturally, becoming normal without fanfare.
"Penny for your thoughts," Axel says.
"Just thinking about how we got here. Two years ago I was alone, terrified, convinced I'd never trust anyone again. Now I'm packing to move in with you and Mateo, building something I didn't know was possible."
He sets down the book he's holding. "I never thought I'd have this either. Family. People who chose me not because of basketball or stats or what I could do for them, but just—me. Home."
"You deserve it." I cross to him, and his arms come around me automatically. "You deserve all of it."
"So do you."
We stand like that for a moment, comfortable silence, until Mateo returns with labels and pizza.
"I got sausage and pepperoni because I'm a man of simple tastes. Also breadsticks because Axel gets cranky without carbs."
"I don't get cranky."
"You absolutely do. Remember the Denver game when you missed breakfast? Terrifying. I thought you might actually eat the referee."
By evening, most packing is done. Naomi's at her night shift. The babies sleep. We're surrounded by boxes and the skeleton of my old life.
"Pizza on the floor?" Mateo suggests. "One last time?"
We settle—my back against the couch, Mateo left, Axel right—eating from the box.
"The new place has that big kitchen," Mateo says. "I'm going to learn actual cooking."
"That'll last one week," Axel predicts.
"Rude. Accurate, but rude."
"We should paint the nursery," I say, because planning feels safer than feeling. "Something neutral. Maybe that soft gray—"
"With the cloud decals," Mateo adds. "I saw some online. They're adorable. The babies will love them."
"The babies are one. They'll love anything that isn't vegetables."
We talk logistics—bedroom arrangements, Naomi's schedule, daycare proximity. Normal things that feel surreal.
I look at them—Axel's steadiness anchoring everything, Mateo's energy brightening the world. Two men who showed up and stayed when staying was complicated.
Two years ago I sat in this city alone and terrified.
Now I'm leaving for something bigger. Three tiny humans sleeping nearby. A sister with keys. Two men who became home.
"What are you thinking?" Axel asks.
"That it's messy. Complicated. Unconventional as hell."
"But?" Mateo prompts.
"But it's ours. And I'm not afraid of what comes next."
Mateo grins. "That's because what comes next is unpacking forty-seven boxes of your excessive books."
"You love my books."
"I love you. The books are excessive."
Axel's hand finds mine. "Tomorrow we start the next chapter."
"Literally," Mateo adds. "Because we're moving. Get it?"
"You're something," I tell him, smiling.
Tomorrow we'll figure out logistics and schedules and co-parenting without losing our minds.
We'll build something messy and unconventional.
But tonight we're here—surrounded by boxes and pizza grease and comfortable silence. And that's enough.
More than enough. It's everything.