Chapter 71

The city was humming with life outside their windows, but inside the penthouse, it was all peaceful chaos. A sanctuary in the making. The space echoed with newness—bare walls, pristine floors, the lingering scent of fresh paint. Boxes were scattered like confetti through every room, labeled in Abigail’s neat, half-cursive handwriting: Kitchen (fragile), Emma’s Books, Baby Stuff (start here?)

It was their first full day in their new home, and the sun was melting into the skyline, streaking the open living room in warm swaths of orange and lavender. The furniture truck was still parked downstairs, mostly full. The only thing they’d moved in so far was the mattress now leaning against the bedroom wall, a lonely lamp beside it like it had wandered away from the rest of its furniture family.

Emma stood by the window in a worn t-shirt and joggers, mug of lukewarm tea in hand. Her hair was pulled up in a lazy bun, and her bare feet tapped quietly against the hardwood floor. She sipped slowly, soaking in the view—the kind of view people write songs about. She could see the city stretching out endlessly in front of them, like it was daring them to make something of this new chapter.

From down the hall, Abigail’s voice rang out. “Okay! So far I’ve found three remote controls, zero batteries, one broken candle holder, and the glittery notebook you swore you’d fill with important life ideas.”

Emma smirked. “I was waiting for the right time.”

“You wrote ‘Lists’ on the first page and then abandoned it,” Abigail called back, appearing a second later in the doorway. Her ponytail was slowly unraveling, sleeves shoved up, a playful glint in her eye.

Emma took another sip of tea. “Still counts.”

Abigail smiled and crossed the room to join her, plopping down in the middle of the empty floor. “You okay?”

Emma turned to face her. “Yeah. Just trying to wrap my head around… all of this. We actually did it.”

Abigail’s eyes softened. “We really did.”

Emma looked down at her bump, placing a gentle hand over it. “It doesn’t feel real yet. That we’re here. That this is ours.”

“Feels pretty real to me,” Abigail said, stretching her legs out dramatically across the floor. “We’re living in a penthouse. With a baby on the way and ten unopened boxes labeled ‘maybe kitchen?’“

Emma chuckled and joined her on the floor, setting her mug aside. “We’re living in chaos.”

“Beautiful chaos,” Abigail said. “The best kind.”

They sat in companionable silence for a moment, the sound of the city softly pouring in through the windows.

Then Abigail shifted, leaning back on her hands. “Hey, so I’ve been thinking… about the stuff that’s still in the truck.”

Emma gave her a curious look. “Okay…”

“I know we said we’d bring up the old furniture,” Abigail began slowly, “but what if… we didn’t?”

Emma blinked. “Didn’t?”

Abigail nodded. “Yeah. What if we just send it straight to storage? Don’t bring it up at all unless we change our minds later.”

Emma raised an eyebrow. “All of it?”

“Well, maybe not the sentimental stuff,” Abigail said with a shrug. “We’ll keep a few things, but the big stuff? The couch, the table, the wobbly bookshelf—we don’t need it. We’re in a brand-new place. We should fill it with brand-new things. Things we choose together, not things we kept because we didn’t know what else to do.”

Emma hesitated. The idea sounded amazing—freeing, even—but the practical part of her brain kicked in. “Okay, but… what about the cost?”

Abigail reached over and gently took her hand, her voice warm and steady. “Emma, listen. I want you to hear this clearly: everything is taken care of. Don’t worry about the cost.”

Emma blinked. “Abigail…”

“I mean it,” Abigail said, squeezing her hand. “Whatever you want for this place, you can have. We’re not just moving in—we’re building something. And I want you to feel like you can make this space exactly the way you dream it. You want a couch shaped like a cloud? We’ll find one. You want a ridiculous amount of throw pillows or a kitchen cart that serves no purpose except to look cute? Done.”

Emma stared at her, overwhelmed, grateful, and a little speechless. “How… I mean, how can you be so calm about this?”

Abigail smirked. “Because I may or may not have enough money to last a few lifetimes.”

Emma gawked. “What?“

Abigail laughed. “Okay, not like royalty-level rich, but I’ve had help. My aunt set up a trust fund when I was born, and I’ve been saving and investing ever since I got my first scholarship. I’ve got more than enough. And honestly? It’s money I want to spend building this life with you. You and our tiny future human.”

Emma felt a tear slide down her cheek, and she didn’t even try to hide it. “I don’t care about furniture. I care about you.“

“I know,” Abigail said gently. “And I care about you enough to make sure you never have to stress about things like this again. We’re a team. Let me take care of this part.”

Emma exhaled shakily, her smile returning. “Okay. Storage it is. And tomorrow, we’re going all-in on furniture shopping.”

“Hardcore.”

“IKEA?”

“IKEA, West Elm, some local artsy shop that sells weirdly shaped furniture for no good reason—anywhere you want.”

“Can I finally get a bookshelf shaped like a tree?”

“You better.“

They both laughed, collapsing side by side onto the sleeping bags they’d tossed down earlier as temporary beds.

Later that night, they sprawled across the floor, eating Thai takeout from mismatched containers—pad thai for Abigail, dumplings and mango sticky rice for Emma—balanced on a box labeled “Bedroom: Definitely Not Essentials.”

The city lights twinkled through the windows like tiny stars come down to meet them.

Abigail glanced over mid-bite. “I was thinking… we could turn the extra room into a nursery-slash-music studio. At least until we build the real nursery. We could put your keyboard in there, the baby’s books, a little reading nook.”

Emma’s face lit up. “Yes. With fairy lights. And a chair big enough for two, so I can rock her to sleep while playing lullabies.”

Abigail melted a little. “We’re really doing this.”

Emma leaned her head against Abigail’s shoulder. “We are.”

“Also, I want us to get a brand-new bed,” Abigail added, poking her side. “A real one. Plush, dramatic, obnoxiously cozy. One we pick together.”

Emma smirked. “I didn’t settle when I picked you.”

Abigail grinned. “That’s your second smooth line today. You’re on a roll.”

Emma shrugged. “Blame the hormones.”

They finished dinner slowly, already planning out each room in their heads, imagining what it would look like 10 months from now. A home filled with life and laughter and baby giggles echoing off the walls.