[Jay's POV]
The first month of the "New Project" (as Keifer called it) turned the Watson Mansion into a high-security sanctuary. The moment the news broke, I wasn't allowed to so much as lift a teaspoon without someone intervening. The "Glow" was now surrounded by a permanent protective shield.
I was sitting on the terrace, trying to reach for a book on the side table, when three hands simultaneously reached for it before I could.
"Analysis, Jay?" Keifer asked, his eyes narrowing as he handed me the book with the precision of a diamond dealer. "The doctor said rest. Reaching for a 500-page hardcover constitutes physical exertion."
"It's a poetry book, Hubby," I giggled, "not a barbell."
The Mamma & Pappa Protocol
Mamma Serina had basically moved into the West Wing. She didn't trust the mansion's world-class chefs anymore; she insisted on preparing every meal herself to ensure maximum "brain-building" nutrients.
"Eat, Jay, dear," she'd say, placing a bowl of organic fruit and yogurt in front of me for the third time in an hour. "The baby needs the antioxidants, and you need to keep your strength up for the 'Watson Temperament' that's coming."
Pappa Keizer, meanwhile, had gone into full "Legacy Mode." He spent his mornings in the garden, pointing out specific trees and telling me, "This one will hold the swing. This path will be the first bike trail." He even started talking to my stomach when he thought Keifer wasn't looking, telling the baby about the history of the Watson crest.
The Brotherly Guardians
Keigan was the unexpected safety officer. He didn't say much, but I noticed that everywhere I went, the floors were suddenly extra-polished and slip-proof. I caught him checking the "air quality" sensors in my room twice a day.
"If the internal environment is 100% pure, the software will develop without glitches," Keigan muttered when I caught him. "Just making sure the hardware—you—is stable."
And then there was Keiran.
Keiran had taken his role as "Future Best Friend" very seriously. He spent his allowance on a tiny, high-powered telescope.
"Ate Jay," he said, sitting on the rug by my feet. "I did the math. If the baby is born in eight months, Jupiter will be in a perfect position. I need to know if the baby can hear me yet, because I have a very important list of star constellations they need to memorize."
"I think they can hear your heart, Keiran," I whispered, ruffling his hair.
The Hubby Overload
But the most intense care came from Keifer. He had officially moved his "War Room" into our suite. He worked from a laptop on the bed, his hand constantly resting on my leg or my stomach, as if he needed a physical connection to the "Constant" at all times.
He installed a biometric ring on my finger that synced directly to his phone. If my heart rate rose by even five beats, he'd be standing over me with a glass of water and a worried look within three seconds.
"Keif, I'm just watching a rom-com," I told him one night when he came sprinting from the dressing room. "My heart rate is up because the main character just got a letter."
"Unacceptable," Keifer growled, sitting behind me and pulling me into his lap. "No more emotional stress. Only calm, high-efficiency entertainment. I'll find you a documentary on limestone."
"Hubby," I laughed, leaning my head back against his shoulder. "I'm okay. We're okay."
He quieted then, his large hand spreading over my still-flat stomach, his eyes softening into that rare, beautiful blue that I'd seen in Italy. "I know, Wiefy. But this is the most important merger I've ever managed. I'm not letting a single variable go unchecked."