Mate Me in Moonlight

Chapter 138

POV: Adeline

We chose the room next to ours.

It had good light—southern exposure, sun streaming through the windows most of the day. Close enough that we'd hear if the baby cried. Far enough that we'd still have our own space. Perfect size. Perfect location.

Perfect.

Or it would be, once we finished preparing it.

The room had been storage before—old furniture, forgotten boxes, the accumulated debris of pack life. We'd cleared it out over the course of a week, Aiden hauling heavy items while I sorted and organized, directed and planned.

Now it was empty. Clean. Waiting.

I stood in the center of the bare room, touching everything. The walls—freshly painted a soft cream color that would work for any child. The window frame—sturdy and secure, no drafts. The floor—smooth wood that would be easy to clean.

"It's already perfect," Aiden said from the doorway.

I turned to look at him. "It needs to be more perfect."

He smiled, that indulgent expression he wore when I was being particular about something. "More perfect. Of course."

"Don't mock me. This is our child's room."

"I know." He crossed to me, his hands finding my shoulders. "And it's going to be beautiful. But you don't have to stress about every detail."

I couldn't help it. Nesting instinct had kicked in hard about two weeks ago, and now I couldn't stop. Everything had to be right. Safe. Perfect. The curtains had to block enough light but not too much. The temperature had to be maintained. The furniture had to be arranged for optimal flow and safety.

"I need to make this right," I said, aware I sounded slightly unhinged.

"You are making it right." His hands rubbed my shoulders gently. "It's going to be perfect because you're putting love into every decision."

Love and obsessive attention to detail, but I didn't argue.

Over the next few days, the room started taking shape.

Freya helped me choose fabrics—soft blankets and curtains in greens and creams, colors that matched the forest outside. Marcus built shelves at heights that would grow with the child, adjustable and sturdy. Luca contributed a rocking chair he'd found in storage and refinished himself, though he'd growled when I'd tried to thank him.

The pack contributed too. Small gifts appearing at our door—hand-sewn clothes, carved toys, blankets knitted from the softest wool. Each gift came with blessings, with hopes, with love from wolves who already saw this child as part of their family.

But the centerpiece—the thing that would anchor the room—Aiden was making himself.

I found him in his workshop one afternoon, surrounded by wood shavings and tools. He looked up when I entered, sawdust in his hair, a small smile on his face.

"Don't mind me," I said, settling into the corner chair he kept for exactly this purpose. "Just watching."

He returned to his work, and I watched.

He was carving a cradle.

Cedar wood—strong and aromatic, naturally resistant to pests. The frame was already complete, smooth curves and sturdy joints. Now he was adding details. Wolf shapes along the sides. Delicate but strong. Protective.

His hands moved with practiced precision. This man who'd fought wars, who'd led wolves into battle, who'd killed to protect his pack—now using those same hands to create something gentle. Something that would hold the most precious thing we'd ever made.

The juxtaposition broke my heart in the best way.

I watched him work—the concentration on his face, the care in every movement. He was making this with his own hands because he wanted our child to sleep in something created with love, not just purchased or assigned.

"I love you," I said suddenly.

He looked up, surprised. Sawdust caught in his dark hair, making him look younger somehow. More vulnerable.

"I love you too," he replied, his smile soft.

"Both of you," he added, his eyes dropping to my stomach.

I was showing now. Not dramatically—still in that awkward stage where it could be mistaken for weight gain—but definitely there. A visible reminder that life was growing inside me. That in a few months, we'd be holding our child instead of just imagining them.

"The cradle's beautiful," I said.

"It's not done yet." He returned to his carving, adding details to one of the wolf shapes. "I want to get the faces right. So when they're old enough to notice, they'll see their pack. Their family."

Pack wolves. Protectors carved in cedar. Watching over the child even in sleep.

"They're going to love it," I said with certainty.

"I hope so." He set down his tools, studying his work critically. "I've never done anything like this before. Never had reason to."

"You're doing beautifully."

He looked at me, and something in his expression made my breath catch. Vulnerability and hope and fear all tangled together.

"What if I'm not good at this?" he asked quietly. "Being a father. What if I don't know how—"

"Then you'll learn." I stood, crossing to him, my hands finding his face. "The same way I'll learn to be a mother. We'll figure it out together."

"Together," he repeated, leaning into my touch.

"Besides," I added, "you're already being a good father. Look at this." I gestured to the cradle. "You're creating something beautiful and safe for our child. That's what being a father is—making sure they have what they need, protecting them, loving them."

"It's just a cradle."

"It's not just a cradle. It's proof that you care. That you're thinking about them. That you're preparing a place for them in your life."

He pulled me close, careful of my stomach, and pressed his face into my hair. "I want to be good at this. Want to be the father I never had."

"You will be." I had absolute certainty about this. "Because you know what not to do. Because you care enough to worry. Because you're willing to learn."

We stood there in his workshop, surrounded by wood shavings and tools and the half-finished cradle that would soon hold our child. The afternoon light came through the windows in golden shafts, illuminating the dust motes that danced in the air.

Peaceful. Domestic. Perfect.

Over the following days, the nursery came together.

The cradle, once finished, took pride of place near the window. The wolf carvings were beautiful—each one unique, each one recognizable as pack. Aiden had carved Luca's stern features, Freya's warm smile, Elara's knowing eyes. All the wolves who would help raise this child, immortalized in cedar.

The shelves held books and toys. The walls held art—simple paintings of the forest, of wolves running, of moons in various phases. The curtains filtered light perfectly. The rocking chair sat ready for late-night feedings and early-morning snuggles.

Everything in place. Everything ready.

The nursery had taken shape.

And with it, so had the future.

I stood in the doorway one evening, Aiden beside me, both of us just looking at what we'd created. Not just the room, but the preparation. The love made tangible through choices and effort and care.

"Our child is going to sleep there," I said softly, nodding toward the cradle.

"Our child is going to grow up there," Aiden corrected, gesturing to the whole room. To the space we'd made for a life we'd created. To the future we were building one careful choice at a time.

The future was taking shape.

In nursery furniture and soft blankets and carved wolf protectors.

In love made visible.

In hope made real.

Ready and waiting for the child who would soon make all of this more than just preparation.

Who would make it home.