No Meanie's Allowed

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

The girls had their first overnight with Kim since she’d gotten out of rehab. You and Marshall had both been nervous, but the gradual reunification plan had been going as smoothly as it could, and the girls seemed cautiously okay with it. You packed their bags with extra hugs and whispered reminders that they could call anytime. Marshall kissed their foreheads and told them he loved them “more than all the stars.”

The single night away wasn’t what broke things.

It was what Hailie carried home with her the next morning.

She walked through the door quieter than usual, eyes red-rimmed and puffy. Alaina trailed behind her looking mostly unbothered, but Hailie’s little shoulders were hunched like the weight of the world had settled on them overnight. The second she saw Marshall, she burst into tears and ran straight into his arms.

Marshall caught her instantly, dropping to one knee on the living room floor and wrapping her up tight. “Hey, hey! What happened, baby girl?”

Hailie sobbed into his hoodie, words tumbling out between hiccups. “Mom said… she said you replaced her with Mama Katie. And now you’re trying to replace me with Whitney. That you have a new family and don’t need me anymore. That Whitney’s your real daughter now and I’m just… leftover.”

The words landed like bricks. You felt your stomach drop. Whitney was asleep in your arms a few feet away, but the peace she'd brought the last two weeks shattered in an instant. Marshall’s face went tight with that familiar protective anger, but he kept his voice soft for Hailie, rocking her gently right there on the floor. “That’s not true, Hailie. None of it. You hear me?”

He spent the entire morning, and most of the afternoon, soothing her. He carried her to the couch, sat with her curled in his lap, and talked in low, steady tones. He reminded her of every single time he’d chosen her first: the nights he stayed up when she was sick, the way he always made sure she knew she was his number one girl, the fact that nothing and no one could ever replace her. He pulled out old photos, because they both loved looking through photo albums when the noise was louder than the truth, Hailie as a baby on his chest, Hailie at her first dance recital, Hailie hold Whitney at the hospital because that man was the family documentarian and had already had two batches of photos developed. You stayed close but gave them space, feeding Whitney when she woke and quietly wiping your own tears when Hailie wasn’t looking. Every sob from your stepdaughter felt like a knife. You’d known Kim’s words could cut deep, but hearing them aimed at Hailie like this hurt in a whole new way.

Alaina, meanwhile, handled it with the shrug only a tough little kid could manage. She plopped down next to you on the couch, stole a piece of fruit you'd been having as a snack, and said simply, “I don’t feel like I’m being replaced.”

You brushed her hair back, amazed at her resilience. “You sure, sweetie?”

“Yeah,” she said around a mouthful of crackers. “Mom says stuff when she’s mad. Whitney’s cute, but she’s a baby. I’m still me. Dad’s still Dad.” Then she looked over at her sister and softly added, “Hailie’s just… more of a Daddy’s girl. I guess I'm not like that.”

Marshall heard that last part. He glanced up from where he was still holding Hailie, eyes soft with pride and exhaustion. “Both of you are my girls. Always. Whitney doesn’t change that. She just makes the team bigger.”

By late afternoon, Hailie had finally cried herself out. She was still tucked against Marshall’s chest, but her breathing had evened and she was letting him rock her like she was much smaller than she was. He kept one arm around her and reached out with the other to pull you and Whitney closer on the couch. Alaina climbed into the pile too, and for a while the five of you just sat there in a messy, tangled heap like closeness could fix everything.

Whitney let out a tiny sleepy coo, and Hailie lifted her head just enough to look at her baby sister. “She’s really little,” Hailie whispered, voice hoarse. "Lainey said you have to take care of her more because she's so little..."

“Yeah,” Marshall said gently. “And you were little like her once too Hails. I loved you then exactly like I love you now. Nothing changes that, okay?” Hailie nodded slowly, then reached out a careful finger to touch Whitney’s hand. Whitney instinctively gripped it, and Hailie’s tear-streaked face cracked into the smallest smile.

You leaned your head against Marshall’s shoulder, relief mixing with the ache in your chest. Postpartum hormones were still making everything feel ten times heavier, but watching him comfort Hailie so patiently reminded you why you’d fallen so hard for this man in the first place.

Later that evening, after the girls were settled and Whitney was down for the night, you and Marshall lay in bed with the bassinet right beside you. His arm was around your waist, your head on his chest, the house finally quiet again. “She’ll be okay,” he murmured into your hair. “We’ll keep showing her every day that she’s not replaceable. Kim’s got her own shit to work through. We can’t control what she says, but we can control what Hailie hears from us.”

You nodded, hugging him tighter. “I hate that it hurt her. I hate that Whitney being here got twisted into something ugly.”

Marshall kissed the top of your head. “Whitney being here is the best thing that’s happened to this family in a long time. Hailie will see that. She already started to tonight when she held her hand.”

You smiled softly against his skin, the familiar comfort of your squish grounding you even on the hard days. Kim could spew whatever venom she wanted. This family, the one you and Marshall had built together, wasn’t going anywhere. And tomorrow, you’d wake up and keep proving it to Hailie, one hug, one conversation, one “you’re my girl” at a time.

---

The gentleness Marshall had shown Hailie on Sunday, the soft voice, the patient rocking, the endless reassurances, was nowhere to be seen on Monday morning. The second the older girls and Nate were dropped off at school, the switch flipped. Marshall stormed back into the house, jaw tight, phone already in his hand. You were in the living room folding laundry with Whitney asleep on the couch in her little bouncer, when you heard him on the phone with his lawyers. His voice was low, sharp, and ice-cold. Absolutely no trace of the tired but loving dad from the day before.

“Yeah, I need a full review of the visitation agreement. Supervised visits only from now on. No overnights. And I want a gag order or whatever the fuck you call it on her talking shit about my wife or my kids, especially her starting shit with Hailie about the baby. She’s dragging a two-week-old into her bullshit. I don't care what it takes. Fucking fix it today.”

You winced, shifting Whitney gently into your arms, so you didn't wake her, as you stood and padded toward the kitchen where he was pacing. Postpartum exhaustion still clung to you like a heavy blanket, but you knew this version of Marshall all too well. When it came to protecting his children, the protective instincts went nuclear. “Marsh…” you said softly, trying to soothe like you always had when Kim set him off. You reached out to touch his arm, your free hand resting lightly on his bicep. “Hey. Breathe. She’s still figuring her shit out after rehab. Hailie’s upset, but we got her through it yesterday. We can keep—”

He pulled away not roughly, but firmly and shook his head, eyes blazing. “No, Katie. Not this time.” His voice cracked with raw fury as he continued pacing, phone still clutched like a weapon. “It’s one thing when she comes at me. She does that shit constantly now that she’s out every fucking call, every visit, she’s got something nasty to say. I can take it. I’ve been taking her shit for years. But she dragged Hailie through that bullshit. Told our six-year-old that I replaced her mother with you and now I’m replacing her with Whitney. My fucking baby. She's a newborn Kate. Kim’s fucking weaponizing a two-week-old against our daughter, and I’m supposed to just sit here and be calm about it?”

You swallowed, heart aching for both him and Hailie. Whitney stirred slightly at his raised tone, and you rocked her automatically, pressing a kiss to her soft brown hair. “I know it’s awful. It hurts me too. But yelling at lawyers and blowing everything up might make it worse for the girls in the long run. We’ve been trying to keep things civil for their sake—”

Marshall stopped pacing and turned to face you fully. The rage in his eyes was unmistakable, but underneath it was something deeper. A fierce, protective love that made your chest tighten. “She crossed two lines, Katie. Hailie is one. Whitney is the other. My six-year-old comes home crying because her mom told her she’s being replaced by her baby sister? And the baby hasn’t even had her two-week check-up yet? Fuck that. I’m not okay with it. I’m not going to just drop this one. I’m ending it.”

He went back to the phone call as his lawyer came back on the line, voice dropping back into that cold, deliberate tone as he laid out exactly what he wanted: tighter restrictions, mandatory therapy for Kim if she wanted any contact, documentation of every harmful comment. No more overnights until she proved she could keep her venom to herself. You stood there for a long moment, Whitney warm and heavy against you, watching the man you’d loved since you were five go full pissed-off-Dad-mode on behalf of his kids. Part of you wanted to step in again, to wrap your arms around him and hug the rage away like you’d done so many times before. But this time… this time you understood why he wouldn’t let it go.

When he finally hung up, the kitchen fell quiet except for Whitney’s soft breathing. Marshall rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling sharply, then crossed the room to you. He didn’t apologize for the outburst. Instead, he gently took Whitney from your arms, cradling her against his chest with the same careful reverence he’d shown since the hospital, and pulled you into his side with his free arm. “I’m not letting her poison things between them,” he said quietly, voice still edged but softer now that it was just the three of you. “Hailie deserves better. Whitney deserves better. You deserve better. I’ve let too much slide for the sake of ‘keeping the peace.’ Not anymore.”

You leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder, one hand coming up to rest over Whitney’s back. “I hate that it came to this,” you whispered. “But… I get it. Protect them however you need to, Squish. I’ve got your back.” He pressed a kiss to the top of your red head, then to Whitney’s soft little head. “Always had yours, shorty. Nobody fucks with our family. Not even their mother.”

The rest of the day passed in a quieter rhythm. You stayed close to home, letting the couch swallow you up while Whitney napped on your chest. Marshall hovered nearby, making calls when he needed to but mostly staying present changing diapers, cooing at the baby when you needed a break, checking on you with that fierce, protective gaze. When the older kids came home from school, Hailie still looked fragile, but Marshall was right there for her pulling her into another long hug, reminding her again that she was irreplaceable. Alaina shrugged it off like before, but even she stuck a little closer that evening. Kim’s words had tried to rip holes in the fabric of your growing family, but Marshall wasn’t going to let them. The gentleness he’d shown Hailie on Sunday had been replaced by something harder and more unyielding on Monday, but it came from the same place: love so deep it refused to bend.

You watched him hold Whitney while talking quietly to Hailie on the couch later that night, and despite the exhaustion and the ache in your chest, you felt a quiet certainty settle over you. This man, the boy who’d tugged your braid all those years ago, would burn the world down before he let anyone hurt his kids. You didn’t even realize you needed reassurance until you saw it in action. Watching Marshall go to war with his ex-wife over your baby, over the tiny two-week-old who hadn’t even had time to know the world yet, hit you in a way you weren’t prepared for. Every sharp word he spoke on the phone, every firm boundary he set, every time he paused to check on Hailie or scoop Whitney up like she was the most precious thing in existence… it all landed soft and warm in your chest. This was the man who had chosen you, chosen all of you, and refused to let anyone tear it apart.

By the time Marshall was tucking the older girls into bed, the emotions crested.

You were sitting on the couch while he was upstairs, Whitney asleep against your shoulder after a feeding, when the tears started again. Not the frustrated, hormone-fueled sobs from the last few days. These were different. Deep, grateful, almost overwhelming in their goodness. You tried to swallow them down, but they spilled over anyway, silent at first, then louder.

Marshall walked downstairs, and froze when he saw your face. “Katie?” He immediately crossed the room in three strides. Whitney was still in your arms, so he carefully took her from you, settling her against his chest with one big hand supporting her head. His free arm came around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong, shorty? Talk to me.”

You shook your head, burying your face in his hoodie as the sobs shook your shoulders. The words came out messy and broken between gasps for air. “You love her.”

Marshall blinked, confusion flickering across his face as he rubbed slow circles on your back. “Who? Kim? Baby, I’ve literally been on the phone trying to limit her contact—”

You shook your head harder, tears soaking into his shirt. “No. Her!” You gesture towards your daughter as you cry harder.

He went still for a second, then pulled back just enough to look at you, brows furrowed. “Of course I love her. She’s our daughter. What—”

You gestured weakly toward the tiny bundle still cradled safely against his chest again, your voice cracking with another wave of sobs. “You love her, Squish… You’re going to war for her. Not just Hailie. For her. You’re fighting so hard and she’s only two weeks old and you’re already protecting her like this and I just—” The rest dissolved into fresh tears. You couldn’t explain it any better than that. It wasn’t just the legal stuff. It was the way he’d held Hailie for hours on Sunday, the way he’d taken over diaper duty without complaint because you were exhausted and overwhelmed and it was something he could take over for you, the way he’d looked at Whitney like she hung the moon even while he was raging on the phone today. It was proof that this wasn’t temporary. That the boy who once tugged your braid at the stop sign had grown into a man who would burn everything down before he let anyone hurt the family you’d built together.

Marshall’s expression softened completely. The hard edges from the lawyer calls melted away as he shifted Whitney to one arm and used the other to cup your face, thumb brushing away tears. “Katie… baby girl,” he murmured, voice rough but gentle. “Of course I love her. She’s ours. You carried her. You gave me this tiny perfect thing with my eyes and your little nose, which is honestly something I'm still so fucking happy about. How could I not go to war for her? For Hailie? For you?”

You nodded, still crying, but smiling through it now, small, watery, overwhelmed in the best way. “I know. I just… I didn’t know I needed to hear it like this. Seeing you fight for her… it makes me feel safe. Like we’re really doing this. Like she’s really ours and nothing’s gonna touch her.”

He leaned in and kissed your forehead, then your damp cheek, then the top of Whitney’s soft brown hair. “She is ours. You’re her mom. I’m her dad. And I’m not letting anyone, especially not Kim, turn that into something ugly. You hear me?”

You nodded again, leaning into his side as the sobs finally started to ease. Marshall kept his arm around you, holding both his girls close while the late afternoon light filtered through the windows. “I love you, Katie,” he said quietly against your red hair. “And I love this little gooey squish we made. I’d go to war every damn day if I had to.”

You let out a shaky laugh, wiping at your eyes. “I know you would, Squish. That’s why I’m crying. Because you’re already doing it.”

Whitney made a small, contented sound in her sleep, and Marshall smiled down at her, the same soft, awed smile he’d had for all his girls. The postpartum storm was still raging. Kim’s venom was still out there. The custody battle was only just beginning.

But in that moment, you just needed him to keep loving her, and her sisters, the way he was right now.

---

The chaos with Kim didn’t magically disappear, but life refused to pause for it.

Marshall had a tour already locked in for later in the summer, and the 8 Mile premiere was barreling toward them in just a few days. You’d been quietly invited too, more as a “Michigan talent” courtesy from the producers than anything personal, but after talking it over with Marshall and Allison, you decided to go. It would be your first night out since Whitney was born, three weeks postpartum, and the idea both terrified and excited you. Sure your body had snapped back faster than you expected. You’d never gained much weight during pregnancy, and the combination of genetics, pre- and post-natal yoga, and the fact that you were still tiny had you slipping into your old clothes with surprising ease. On the night of the premiere, you stood in front of the mirror in a tight navy blue dress with sheer panels that hugged every curve. The fabric clung to your chest and hips in a way that made your already firm ass and tits look even better with the new fullness from breastfeeding and yoga. You paired it with strappy heels that made your legs look long.

Allison, was lounging on your bed, here to be your date and emotional support, let out a loud wolf whistle when you came out of the bathroom. “Jesus, Katie. You look like you’re about to make every photographer on that carpet forget what movie they’re here for. Seriously... You're putting MILF on a whole new level.”

You laughed, cheeks flushing. “Shut up. I feel like I’m playing dress-up after living in hoodies and spit-up rags for three weeks.”

Downstairs, Marshall was waiting looking every inch 'Eminem' instead of 'Marshall' with his hair freshly bleached, you’d already informed him that Whitney hated it but he'd gotten used to that. The second you stepped into view, you watched his brain short-circuit in real time. His eyes dragged slowly from your heels up your legs, over the navy dress, and locked on your face. His mouth actually opened, then closed. “And you’re still sure you want to walk with Allie?” he finally managed, voice rough. “I don’t get to… fucking hell, Katie.”

You grinned, doing a little spin that showcased the flirty sheer panels. “Rules are rules, Squish. We’re still keeping this private. No walking the carpet together. No confirming anything.”

He shook his head, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “gonna kill me,” but he guided both you and Allison out to the waiting cars with a hand on the small of your back. There were two separate vehicles, Paul's grand procedure for keeping things discreet. You rode with Allison while Marshall went ahead. The separation from him sucked, but leaving Whitney was harder than you expected. You’d barely been more than ten feet from her since she was born, and the entire ride to the premiere you kept checking your phone for updates from your dad, who was on babysitting duty back at the house. Allison squeezed your hand the whole way, chatting lightly to distract you.

Once you hit the red carpet, though, something shifted. The energy, the lights, the noise, it felt strangely freeing. You walked the carpet with Allison right beside you, smiling for the cameras in your tight navy dress, the strappy heels clicking confidently. When interviewers asked about the baby, you gave them the same confused little head tilt you’d perfected during album promo. “Baby?” you asked one reporter with wide, innocent eyes. “I thought this was a movie premiere?”

Allison had to hide her laugh behind her hand every time. It felt good to be out. To feel like Katie again instead of just “Mom” or “the postpartum mess on the couch.” You even started giggling for real when you spotted Marshall further down the carpet doing his own interviews. He was doing the exact same bit as you furrowed brow, confused shrug, “Katie who? They invited half of Michigan to this thing, I don't know everybody here.”

You couldn’t resist. As you and Allison walked past his section of the carpet, you turned toward the cameras with an exaggerated, over-the-top expression of shock and mouthed clearly, “Oh my God, it’s Eminem!” while pretending to be a fan girl like you'd never seen him before. Allison lost it, burying her face in your shoulder to muffle her laughter. Marshall didn’t see it in the moment, because he was mid-answer talking about the movie, but you knew the clip would be everywhere tomorrow and the thought made you grin like an idiot the rest of the night. Inside the theater, you and Allison sat a few rows behind Marshall. The movie was raw and powerful, Marshall poured everything into Jimmy Smith Jr., and you felt stupidly proud watching it on the big screen. During the standing ovation at the end, your eyes kept drifting to him. He looked tense but satisfied, the weight of doing the work finally paying off in front of an audience.

On the ride home, Allison kept teasing you about the way Marshall had short-circuited at the sight of your dress. “You broke your man’s brain tonight,” she laughed. “He’s gonna be thinking about navy blue for weeks.”

You smiled, already missing Whitney’s tiny weight against your chest, but lighter than you’d felt in days. “Good. He deserves a little torture after commiting the hair crime. Seriously if you and Paul hook up convince Paul that Marshall needs a rebrand so I can stop sleeping with a bottle blond.”

When you finally got home, your dad handed Whitney over with a tired but proud smile before kissing your cheek and heading to the guest house Marshall had insisted on moving him into. The baby was fussy, but the second she was in your arms she settled, little fist curling into your dress as she rooted for comfort. Marshall walked in a few minutes later, still in his suit, and the second he saw you holding the baby in that same navy dress, his expression did the short-circuit thing all over again. “Fuck,” he muttered, crossing the room to pull both of you into his arms. “You looked insane tonight, shorty. And now you’re here with our daughter like it’s nothing. I don’t know how I’m supposed to survive you.”

You laughed softly, leaning into him while Whitney made contented little noises between you. “You’ll manage, Squish. You always do.”

Allison slipped upstairs to the guest room quietly to give you space, and for a few minutes it was just the three of you in the quiet house.

The world still wanted pieces of both of you, and really the next few months would be intense and you both knew it. But tonight, in the afterglow of the premiere, with your body finally feeling a little more like your own and your husband looking at you like you hung the moon, you felt like yourself again.

A little bit pop star.

A little bit new mom.

A whole lot Marshall’s.

“Look at her eyes,” Hailie breathed. “They’re just like Dad’s.”

Marshall kept clicking away, capturing every moment, the girls’ awed faces, Nate’s careful gentleness, the way Whitney squirmed and let out a tiny squeak that had them all melting.

Your dad, though, he was different.

He’d gotten emotional the moment you told him her name, Whitney just like your mom, his eyes misting over as he pulled you into a careful hug and whispered how proud he was. But two hours later, he still hadn’t asked to hold her. He'd barely even looked at her in all honesty. Instead, he’d pulled a chair right up beside your hospital bed and stayed there, fussing over you in that quiet, steady way only dads can. He fluffed your pillow, made sure you had water, braided your hair loosely over one shoulder in that messy way he used to when you were little so it was out of your face, and kept checking if you were comfortable or needed anything from the nurses. You watched him for a while, confused by the way he kept his focus entirely on you while the kids and Marshall fussed over the baby across the room.

Finally, during a lull when the girls were taking turns again holding Whitney under Marshall’s supervision, you looked up at your dad with a small frown. “Dad… don’t you want to see the baby?”

He just smiled at you, soft, warm, a little sad in the best way, like he knew something you were still too new at this to fully grasp. His hand reached out to gently squeeze yours, thumb stroking the back of it the same way he used to when you were little and scared of thunderstorms. “Eventually,” he said quietly, voice thick with emotion. “Right now I just want to see my baby.”

Your throat tightened instantly. The words hit harder than you expected, the weight of everything he must be feeling hitting you, growing up without your mom was hard, leaning on him through the lonely years, crossing the street to Marshall’s house because your own felt too empty when he was working. It never occured to you before how hard all of that must've been on him knowing your mom, his wife, wasn't there for any of it. He'd been hesitantly excited about your pregnancy, but it never occured to you he may have fear too. You'd always loved that you looked so much like your mom, but it never crossed your mind that the last time your dad was in a hospital with a baby he also lost his wife. Here you were, now a mom yourself, and your dad was choosing you in the middle of all the newness because you were here. You were okay. That awful fear he'd never dared voice wasn't true.

You blinked back tears, squeezing his hand back as hard as you could without pulling at your sore muscles. “Dad…”

He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead, just like he’d done when you were five and bringing a scruffy boy home from the stop sign. “You did good, sweetheart. Real good. She’s beautiful… but right now, I’ve got my girl right here. Let me fuss over you a little longer. You’ve earned it.”

Marshall glanced over from where he was helping Alaina adjust her hold on Whitney, catching the moment. His eyes softened, and he gave you a small, understanding nod before turning back to the kids with a quiet, “Alright, who’s next?”

You leaned your head against your dad’s shoulder for a moment, letting the tears slip free. The room was filled with the happy chaos of your growing family, the older kids whispering baby talk, Marshall’s low laugh as he took another picture, Whitney’s tiny sounds cutting through it all. But in that little bubble beside the bed, it was just you and your dad for a minute. Eventually he did hold her. When the girls started getting restless and Marshall suggested a group photo, your dad stood up, took Whitney with careful, trembling hands, and looked down at her with the same awe everyone else had. But even then, his eyes kept drifting back to you, like he was making sure his first baby was okay before he fully let himself fall for the new one.

Marshall caught it all on camera, the tender way your dad cradled Whitney, the way he glanced at you with that quiet pride, the way you smiled through happy tears while your dad’s arm came around your shoulders again. Later, when the room had settled and the girls were taking turns showing Nate how to burp the baby, Marshall leaned down and kissed the top of your head. “Your dad’s a good man,” he murmured against your hair.

You nodded, watching your dad watch Whitney with soft eyes. “Yeah. He is.”

The world outside the hospital walls could keep spinning, gossip, headlines, Debbie’s bitterness, Kim’s complicated situation. None of it mattered in this room. Because here, in the middle of the chaos and the new beginnings, you had your husband snapping ridiculous proud-dad photos, your older kids already in love with their baby sister, your father fussing over his “baby” even while holding his granddaughter… and the tiny girl with soft brown hair and Marshall’s eyes sleeping peacefully between all the love that had dared to grow from a simple stop-sign friendship all those years ago.

Whitney Mathers had arrived.

And the family she’d been born into was already wrapped around her like the best kind of hug.

A perfect little squish.

---

By the time you and Marshall brought Whitney home from the hospital a few days later, two things were crystal clear.

First: you and Marshall had somehow made the cutest, ooeyest, gooiest little girl in the entire world, and you were completely, helplessly obsessed with her. Whitney was tiny and perfect with that baby soft brown hair that already had the faintest wave, those striking blue eyes that melted everyone who looked at them, and the sweetest little scrunched-up face when she fussed. You couldn’t stop staring at her. Marshall couldn’t stop taking pictures. The girls fought, mostly playfully, over who got to hold her next or who she loved the most, and even as a moody teenage boy Nate kept sneaking into the nursery just to watch her sleep when he thought no one would notice. She was the new center of the universe, and none of you minded one bit.

Second: postpartum was hitting you much harder than pregnancy ever had.

The emotional rollercoaster came out of nowhere and refused to slow down. The first meltdown happened in the car on the way home. You were buckled in the backseat next to Whitney’s car seat, staring at Marshall’s bleached-blond head in the driver’s seat, when the tears started flowing.

“She’s gonna know how stupid your hair looks,” you sobbed, wiping at your face with the sleeve of one of Marshall’s hoodies. “The real color is so much better, she even has the same color already, and she’s never gonna see it and know she looks like you because you keep ruining it for cameras and I hate it and it’s just so dumb—”

Marshall glanced at you in the rearview mirror, equal parts concerned and fighting a laugh. “Baby, I’ll dye it back tomorrow. Swear.”

You cried harder. “You can't because you have to promote your stupid album!”

When you walked into the house, the second wave hit the second you stepped into the living room. You stopped dead in the doorway, clutching Whitney to your chest like she might disappear if she saw the horror in the middle of your living room. “The couch is grey,” you whispered, horrified.

Marshall blinked, setting the diaper bag down. “Yeah… it’s always been grey, Katie.”

“But Whitney hates it,” you insisted, fresh tears spilling over. “It’s too… grey. She needs something warmer. She’s gonna think we don’t care about her comfort. How can she grow up in a house with a grey couch Marshall?”

Hailie and Alaina exchanged confused looks. Nate just stared. Marshall rubbed the back of his neck, clearly out of his depth but trying. “Okay. We can… get a new slipcover? Or a throw blanket?”

Your dad, who had come over to help with the transition, just nodded wisely, and when you teared up once you realized how far your bedroom was away from the nursery, he disappeared to the store without being asked. He came back an hour later with a bassinet so you could keep Whitney right next to your bed instead of in the nursery down the hall. You cried again when you saw it, happy tears this time, because it meant she’d be close, and because your dad still knew exactly how to fix things for his baby even when you were now someone’s mom.

The visitors made it worse. DeShaun, Denaun, and Paul stopped by a couple days later, all smiles and congratulations, excited to meet the newest Mathers. The second they asked to hold her, something feral and irrational twisted in your chest. You handed Whitney over with shaky hands, then immediately started crying because clearly they were trying to steal her.

“They’re not gonna take her,” Marshall murmured, pulling you into his arms while you sniffled against his chest. “They just wanted to say hi, shorty. You love those guys.”

“I know,” you wailed. “But what if she forgets me? What if she likes them better?”

Marshall kissed the top of your red head, rubbing slow circles on your back. “Impossible. She already knows who her mama is. You’re the one who carried her and sang to her every night in the womb. They’re just uncles. Temporary entertainment.”

Your body felt like it had been through a war, achy, tired, leaking in places you didn’t want to think about. Marshall’s body, meanwhile, looked annoyingly normal. One afternoon you glared at his chest while he changed Whitney’s diaper, because he’d taken over diaper duty almost exclusively, and muttered, “It’s not fair. You have useless man nipples and I’m the one who’s falling apart. What do dad's even do with a newborn? Whitney’s mad about it too. She thinks you should be more useful to her, because she likes you better, I can tell.”

Marshall barked out a laugh, carefully snapping the onesie closed. “I’m doing what I can, baby. Diapers, I'll even do nighttime feeds if you start producing enough to pump, letting you sleep when I can. Tell our daughter I’m sorry about the nipples, since apparently she's only talking to you. They’ve never been good for much, but I'm pretty sure she likes you better. You're much softer and warmer than I am. Plus you smell good.” He hands you the baby and kisses your neck gently, "Way too fucking good for someone I can't touch for another six weeks."

You also pouted non-stop if he did anything that wasn't completely doting over the baby. You pout harder if she's looking especially adorable. “You’re not cooing at her enough right now,” became your constant complaint.

This time he's literally in the middle of trying to write a verse at the kitchen island while Whitney napped in her bouncer on the island. You were sitting next to him eating breakfast, but mostly staring at her like she might vanish if you blinked, when you noticed him working and the pout hit full force. You poked Marshall’s arm repeatedly until he set the notebook down. “Marsh. Look at her. She needs more attention from her dad.”

He sighed, but there was a fond smile tugging at his mouth as he leaned over, scooped Whitney up gently, and started murmuring stupid, low nonsense to her, “Hey, little squish. Your mama’s losing her mind over how cute you are, and she’s dragging me down with her. You gonna back Daddy up or what?”

You watched them with wet eyes, the ache in your chest easing just a little. “Better,” you whispered.

Marshall glanced over at you, Whitney tucked safely against his chest, and sighed knowing you well enough to know you were confused and upset by the way everything makes you emotional now. He knows you're trying to communicate your needs, not nagging, so he tries to give you some reassurance, “You’re doing so good, Katie. Even when you’re crying because the couch is grey or because I have stupid hair. This is hard. I got you. We got her.”

You nodded, fresh tears slipping free, but this time they felt a little less overwhelming. Postpartum was a beast, and it was kicking your ass harder than you’d expected, but the house was full of support, your dad fussing in the background, the older kids tiptoeing around like they understood you were fragile right now, Marshall stepping up in every way he could while still letting you be the emotional center.

Later that night, when the house was finally quiet and Whitney was asleep in the bassinet right beside your bed, you curled into Marshall’s side under the covers. Your body still hurts. Your hormones were still a mess. But his arm around you felt like home, and the soft sound of your daughter breathing filled the room with peace. “I’m a mess,” you whispered against his chest.

“You’re my mess,” he replied, kissing your forehead. “And you’re the best mom our gooey little girl could have. Cry about the grey couch all you want. We can buy a new one if it makes you happy. Just keep letting me hold my girls.”

You smiled through the lingering tears, hugging him tighter, the same way you’d hugged your squish since you were five years old.

It was messy.

It was hard.

It was perfect. Because you were doing it with him.

---

About a week after bringing Whitney home, when the postpartum fog felt thickest and every little thing seemed capable of triggering another round of inexplicable tears, Allison finally showed up. She’d been out of town for work and had been texting nonstop, demanding updates and pictures, but nothing prepared you for the way she breezed through the front door like a raven haired hurricane in human form, your other best friend since middle school, Whitney’s godmother, and apparently the only person on earth who could slip straight into “Katie whisperer” mode without missing a beat. Allison took one look at you curled on the old grey couch in one of Marshall’s hoodies, eyes puffy as you tried to explain the couch to Whitney, who was fussing lightly in your arms while you settled in to breastfeed, and immediately Allie went to work.

First, she hugged you so tightly you cried again, cautious of Whitney in your arms, cooing at the baby who was eating contentedly now, like they’d known each other forever. While you sniffled and explained everything, Allison surveyed the living room with a critical eye.

“Alright. Phase one,” she announced, already pulling out her notebook to start a list. “This grey couch has got to go. It’s making everyone sad, including the baby.” You nodded because finally someone seemed to understand.

You didn’t even argue. Within an hour she had Nate and Marshall go order a new big cozy sectional ordered in a soft, deep forest green fabric that she knew would feel warm and safe. Coordinating throw pillows and a new area rug to tie the whole room together weren't even a question, and Marshall was able to get expedited delivery the very next day. The transformation was instant. The living room suddenly felt softer, calmer, less cold. More like the warm environment you wanted for your new baby.

Marshall watched the whole operation of clearing out the living room and getting the new furniture in place with raised eyebrows but didn’t complain. He knew better than to get between Allison and a mission. Especially if that mission was the one thing they had in common. You.

Later that afternoon, when you were sitting on the new couch, already crying again because it was so much nicer and Whitney looked happier against the green, and Marshall was trying to sneak a few lines into his notebook at the kitchen island, the waterworks started for a different reason. “He’s not even looking at her,” you whimpered, poking Marshall’s arm repeatedly, as you explained the tears to Allison. “She’s right there being all gooey and perfect and he’s writing instead of cooing, and I just don't understand.”

Allison fixed Marshall with a steady, no-nonsense look from across the room. “Marshall. You can write when Katie and Whitney are asleep. Or not at all. Pick one.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. For once, the big bad rapper didn’t argue. He set the notebook down, walked over, and scooped Whitney up with exaggerated care, murmuring low, ridiculous baby talk while rocking her gently. “Alright, little squish. Daddy’s on cooing duty. Mama’s apparently calling in reinforcements because I'm not doing the newborn phase right. You gotta be on my side though because Aunt Allie is a pain in my ass.”

You let out a watery laugh, leaning into Allison’s side as she sat beside you. “Thank you,” you whispered. “I feel like I’m losing my mind, but everytime I see him writing my whole body gets itchy.”

“You’re not,” she said firmly, rubbing your back. “You’re postpartum. Your body just did something insane, your hormones are doing cartwheels, and you’re allowed to be a mess. You're allowed to need him to be present, even if you can't express it right. That’s why I’m here. I'll be the Katie translator until you know how to explain it for yourself.”

She didn’t stop there. Allison coaxed you, gently but relentlessly, into letting Marshall’s friends hold Whitney while you showered or napped or even just sat outside for ten minutes of fresh air. When DeShaun, Denaun, and Paul came by again, she smoothly took over, showing them exactly how to support the baby’s head because she saw you wince at the way they were holding her. It wasn't even wrong or too rough, it just wasn't gentle enough for you, so she took over and gave you a little push toward the bathroom. “Go. Shower. Cry in the hot water if you need to. I’ve got the fort.”

To your surprise, it helped. Stepping away for even twenty minutes felt less terrifying when Allison was there directing traffic like a pro. You came back cleaner, calmer, and only cried a little when you saw Paul carefully rocking Whitney and making silly faces at her. You were so relieved to finally feel like someone understood the storm inside your head that you didn’t even notice the way Allison and Paul kept making eyes at each other across the room, quick glances, small smiles, the way Paul’s hand lingered when he handed the baby back to her. Marshall caught it, though. He shot you an amused look over Whitney’s head, but you were too busy soaking in the peace to register what it meant.

That evening, after the older kids had gone to bed and Whitney was finally asleep on Marshall's chest, you curled up on the sectional with his free arm around you and Allison sprawled on the other end, feet tucked under her. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” you told her honestly, voice still a little thick.

Allison waved it off with a grin. “You’d cry on the grey couch and traumatize the baby with bad interior design. Seriously, I could have told you she'd hate a grey couch, I’m just doing my god motherly duty and advocating for her.”

Marshall chuckled, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Seriously? I picked one piece of furniture in this house and it traumatized my wife and newborn...." He gets a little more serious though, "For real though, thanks for stepping in, Allie. I was running out of ways to fix... Anything.”

You smiled, exhausted but lighter than you’d felt in days, and rested your head on Marshall’s shoulder while your eyes drifted toward your baby. Whitney was sleeping peacefully, tiny fists curled near her face, soft brown hair catching the low lamplight.

Postpartum was still hard. The tears still came at weird times. Your body still aches and your emotions still swing like a pendulum.

But with your husband quietly cooing at your daughter when you needed him to, your dad still fussing over you in the background, the older kids wrapped around their baby sister, and now Allison here fixing everything from furniture to your spiraling brain… the storm felt a little more manageable.

You were still a mess.

You and Marshall let the video announce your marriage and kept the pregnancy completely under wraps. No announcements. No leaks. The only people who knew were the tiny inner circle that had been at the ceremony, Proof, and the D12 guys since it would impact their upcoming tour, your dad, and the girls, who were sworn to secrecy with the promise of ice cream and extra movie nights. In the outside world, you were still just “Katie,” the sassy redhead pop star with the de-mystified best-friends ring and the cheeky album riding high on the charts.

Meanwhile, life inside the Michigan house settled into the kind of domestic bliss you hadn’t realized you’d been craving for years.

Marshall was slammed. Between finishing filming and starting post-production on 8 Mile, starting to shoot additional scenes, and locking himself in the studio late into the night to work on what would become The Eminem Show, he was stretched thin. But every time he walked through the door, whether it was at 2 a.m. after a long day on set or mid-afternoon between meetings, he’d find you in the kitchen because it was almost impossible for you to sleep without him anymore, or curled up on the couch with the girls, and his whole face would soften. He’d pull you into his chest for one of those long, grounding hugs, his hand automatically drifting down to rest gently over your still-flat stomach like he needed the reminder that it was real.

You, on the other hand, pretty much stayed home. Promo for Kaitlyn had wrapped early, and with the pregnancy and the second-trimester fatigue hitting harder than expected, you turned down every additional request for appearances, interviews, or performances. The headaches had eased, but the constant low-level nausea and bone-deep tiredness made the idea of airports and hotel rooms feel impossible. Instead, you spent your days doing the simplest things: helping the girls with homework at the kitchen table, making ridiculous holiday cookies with too many sprinkles, binge-watching movies under blankets while Marshall grumbled about “chick flicks” but stayed for every one.

One quiet evening in early December, the four of you were piled on the oversized sectional, Hailie and Alaina fighting over who got to use your lap as a pillow, Marshall’s arm draped around your shoulders. The girls had finally drifted off halfway through the movie, leaving just the two of you in the soft glow of the Christmas tree lights.

You tilted your head against his chest and whispered, “I don’t know if I even want to tour anymore after the baby comes, Marsh.”

He went still for a second, then shifted so he could look down at you properly. His fingers traced lazy circles on your shoulder. “Yeah?”

You nodded, voice soft but certain. “Being here… with the girls, with you, just doing this... making dinner, arguing over whose turn it is to pick the movie, falling asleep on the couch because I’m too tired to move it feels right. I love making music, but the road? The constant moving, the cameras, the speculation… I think I’m ready for something quieter. At least for a while. I want to be home when the baby gets here. I want to be the one picking them up from school or making them laugh when they’re having a bad day. Like you do with Hailie and Lainey.”

Marshall was quiet for a long moment, processing. Then he pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his free hand sliding down to rest protectively over your belly again. “Then don’t tour. Fuck what anyone else expects. You’ve already given the world two albums and a bunch of shit that make people blush. If you wanna stay home and be a mom, our kids’ mom, that’s what you’ll do. I’ll make sure we’ve got everything you need. Studio’s downstairs if you ever wanna write or record something. No pressure.”

You smiled against his hoodie, the familiar scent of him grounding you. “You sure? I know the label’s gonna lose its mind if I just… disappear for a bit.”

“Let ‘em lose it,” he said with that signature half-shrug. “You’re my wife now. That comes first. The baby comes first. Everything else can wait.”

The gossip magazines and entertainment commentators, of course, had a field day anyway. With your sudden radio silence after the Kaitlyn promo run and the very obvious diamond still sparkling on your finger in old photos and fan-captured sightings, the speculation ran wild. Tabloids printed blurry pictures of you and Marshall in the same city at the same time, though never actually together in public, and spun elaborate theories: secret romance, bitter feud, you secretly carrying his child already though since you got signed you'd apparently been pregnant four times in three years. One particularly ridiculous headline screamed “Katie’s Reclusive Secret Life: Is She Pregnant with Former Drummer Darren Carmichael's Baby? Sources Say the Childhood ‘Best Friend’ Connection Runs Deeper Than We Thought! He's Raising Her Baby”

You and Marshall read the articles together late at night and laughed until you cried. He’d shake his head and mutter, “They’re so close and still so fucking wrong,” while you’d twist the ring on your finger and reply, “Let them keep guessing. Our little shotgun secret is staying ours until we’re ready.”

The holidays were quiet and perfect. Thanksgiving was just the five of you, turkey, too many sides, and the girls teaching Nate their favorite board games. Christmas morning brought chaos in the best way: wrapping paper everywhere, the girls squealing over new bikes and dolls, Marshall watching you with soft eyes as you helped them open gifts while your hand occasionally drifted to your stomach, marveling at the tiny life growing there. Before the Fairy Princess tea party you'd set up to make Hailie's birthday still feel like it was her special day too. You'd even gotten Marshall and Nate in princess crowns for it, though they refused to wear the fairy wings. 

By the time January rolled around and Marshall finally wrapped 8 Mile filming, the rhythm felt even more solid. You’d wake up tangled in his arms, share lazy morning kisses before the girls stirred, then spend your days in comfortable domesticity, nesting instincts kicking in as you started quietly buying tiny onesies and soft blankets, hiding them in the nursery you and Marshall had begun converting from the guest room that used to be your room.

One afternoon in late January, while Marshall was out of town doing recording sessions in California, you were sitting on the floor with Hailie and Alaina, helping them build an elaborate Lego castle. Alaina suddenly looked up at you with big eyes and asked, “When’s the baby gonna be here, Mama... I mean, Aunt Katie?”

The word “Mama” hit you square in the chest, warm and overwhelming. You pulled her into a hug, as you whispered, “Not for a while yet, sweetheart. But I promise we’re all gonna be a family. The best kind, because it's the one we're making.”

Marshall walked in later that week to find the three of you asleep on the couch in a pile of blankets. He stood in the doorway for a long moment, just watching, his wife, his daughters, and the barely-there bump that decided to show itself while he was gone apparently, before gently waking you with a kiss to your forehead.

“Domestic bliss looks good on you, Mrs. Mathers,” he murmured.

You smiled sleepily, reaching up to pull him down for a proper kiss. “Feels even better, Squish.”

The world could keep speculating. The cameras could keep flashing at empty rumors. Inside these walls, everything was exactly as it should be: messy, loud, full of love, and quietly expanding to make room for one more tiny person who would probably inherit your red hair or his sharp tongue or both. And for the first time in your career, you were perfectly content to let the spotlight fade while you stayed home, falling deeper into the life you and Marshall had dared each other into, one hug, one movie night, one quiet “I love you” at a time.

The rhythm of life settled around you quietly, wrapped in the soft haze of pregnancy and the soft bubble of your new home life. Marshall was deep in album prep with long days at the studio, coming home exhausted but wired, still finding time to pull you close on the couch and rest his hand on your bump and talk to the baby in there while the girls did homework nearby. Nate had been living with you full-time for months now, and he was finally starting to relax into your routines instead of the chaos that had been his life before. The court arrangement making the house feel even fuller in the best way, because he was with you guys and folded so easily into your little family unit. You drove him to his court-ordered visitations with Debbie when Marshall’s schedule made it impossible, always keeping things polite but staying distant at Marshall's insistence.

You half-expected Kim to be the one to pop the happy little bubble once she got out of rehab at the end of January. She tried, at first, showing up with demands and lawyers, insisting on immediate full custody of Hailie and Alaina. The girls were confused and torn, coming home from visits quiet and teary-eyed, asking why Mom was so mad all the time now. It was hard on them. Really hard. You and Marshall sat with them through the tears, explaining in gentle, age-appropriate ways that adults were working things out, that they were safe, that nothing would take them away from their dad or from you. Gently making sure they knew that their world was expanding by their mom getting better and being able to be with them again, not shrinking by taking away their love and stability with you guys. Eventually, Kim had to agree to a gradual reunification plan, supervised visits, therapy, step-by-step. It wasn’t perfect, but it gave everyone breathing room. The girls leaned on you harder during those weeks: extra hugs from you, late-night talks with Marshall, movie marathons where you all piled together like nothing could touch your little unit.

So, the bubble didn’t burst from Kim.

It burst from Debbie.

You’d known she’d find out about the pregnancy eventually. Nate’s visitations were regular, and your red hair and tiny frame always made her angry, especially once the Michigan cold really settled in and you started wearing winter coats that emphasized the bump. You’d caught her staring during one drop-off in Early February, eyes narrowing at the way your hand instinctively rested low on your stomach. But you never imagined she’d be the one to weaponize it. The first headline dropped on a cold Tuesday morning while Marshall was on set and you were making pancakes with the girls. Some gossip channel getting the 'official confirmation' of your pregnancy from a 'source close to the family'.  Then the quotes from Debbie started flooding every entertainment magazine and trashy tabloid: interviews where she painted you as “that little redhead who’s spent her whole life clinging to my son like a groupie.” She called you manipulative, said you’d “turned Marshall against his own family,” claimed you were bright and shiny on the surface but just another opportunist riding his fame. She dragged your pop career into it, twisting your affectionate history into something cheap and predatory. Worst of all, she brought your baby into the mess, speculating loudly about how “convenient” the timing was, implying you’d trapped him, questioning if you were even fit to be a mother.

It hurt more than you wanted to admit.

Debbie had always hated you. From the time you were a tiny five-year-old marching across the street after Marshall tugged your braid, she’d seen you as competition for her son’s attention. She hated how bright and bold you were, how you never let her talk down to you even as a kid. She really hated that you’d spent years quietly convincing Marshall he deserved better than the chaos and resentment she brought, that he could build something stable instead of repeating old patterns. You’d been the one hugging him through the worst of it, the one who stayed when everyone else came and went. You knew she’d been furious when the music video for your wedding announcement had been released, months later the song was climbing the charts and the video was getting a lot of airplay, but to bring your unborn baby into her public tantrum? That crossed every line you didn't know you had yet.

Marshall came home that afternoon to find you in the nursery you’d started setting up, sitting on the floor surrounded by tiny onesies, eyes red but jaw set. The girls were at dinner with Kim; Nate was with a tutor downstairs. He took one look at your face, dropped his bag, and crossed the room in three strides. “Katie. What happened?”

You handed him the magazine you'd bought at the grocery store earlier, open to the latest article quoting his mother. He read in silence, his expression darkening with every line. When he finished, he tossed the magazine onto the changing table like it burned him and pulled you up into his arms, holding you tight against his chest.

“She’s full of shit,” he said, voice low and rough. “Always has been. You know that.”

“I know,” you whispered into his hoodie, arms wrapping around his waist like you had since you were little. “But she’s talking about our baby, Marsh. Calling me a groupie, questioning if I got pregnant on purpose or if I would even be a good mom… like I didn’t grow up across the damn street from you. Like she's never met me. Like I wasn’t the one who’s loved you since I was five.”

He exhaled sharply, one hand rubbing slow circles on your back while the other rested protectively over your stomach. “She’s pissed because you convinced me I deserved better than her bullshit. Because you stayed. Because you make this house feel like home instead of a war zone. And now there’s another kid coming who’s gonna know what real love looks like from day one. She can’t stand it.”

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, your red hair messy from running your hands through it. “The girls are gonna see this stuff eventually. Nate too. What do we tell them?”

“We tell them the truth,” he said firmly. “That Grandma Debbie has her own problems and sometimes she says mean things when she’s hurting. You're Nate's mom now, in every way that counts, and Kim's pissed the girls already told her that you're their Mama too, and nothing she says changes that. We shield them as much as we can, like we’re doing with Kim's shit. And we don’t give her the reaction she wants.”

You nodded, leaning into him again. The domestic bubble felt a little dented, but not broken. Not yet. “I don’t want to fight her publicly. I just want to stay here with you and the kids. Make cookies. Write dumb songs about how I'm happy and in love and loved...” A tiny, watery smile tugged at your lips.

Marshall huffed a laugh despite everything, tilting your chin up to kiss you slow and steady. “Then that’s what we do. Fuck the headlines. Fuck her narrative. You’re my wife. You’re carrying our baby. You’ve been my best friend longer than she’s been anything good in my life. That’s the only story that matters.”

Later that night, after the girls were home and tucked into their beds and Nate was settled, the two of you lay tangled in your bed. Your head rested on his chest, his fingers threading through your hair while his other hand stayed glued to the small swell that was finally starting to look like a real bump and not just bloat.

“I cancelled the rest of any promo I had left, even the magazine stuff I've been doing over the phone,” you murmured. “I’m not feeding this circus. Let them speculate. Our little one doesn’t need to come into a world where their grandma is already trashing their mom.”

“Good,” Marshall said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Stay home. Nest. Let me take care of you. The girls need you steady right now, especially with Kim’s shit still settling. Nate too. We’ve got this.”

You hugged him tighter, the familiar comfort of your squish wrapping around you like always. Outside, the tabloids kept spinning, Debbie giving more interviews, commentators dissecting your “childhood connection” to Eminem with fresh glee. Kim’s gradual custody plan continued with its ups and downs. But inside the house, the rhythm held: pancakes in the morning, homework at the table, quiet evenings where Marshall rubbed your feet and the girls argued over baby names. Hailie was pushing hard for something “cool and sparkly”, while Lainey wanted "cute, but also fun" for their baby sister.

Debbie had tried to burst the bubble with venom and old grudges.

She only made it stronger.

Because no matter what she said, you weren’t some groupie who got lucky. You were the tiny redhead who’d followed a seven-year-old boy from a stop sign all the way into forever and you were staying right here, building the family Marshall deserved, one protected, loving day at a time.

---

The awards season kicked off and your bump was still small and cute and you kind of wanted to show it off, but the tabloid storm Debbie had unleashed made every public appearance feel like stepping into a minefield. Kaitlyn, picked up nominations for Best Pop Album and a couple of songwriting nods. Meanwhile, 8 Mile was generating serious buzz, and Marshall was expected to hit several of the shows to keep the momentum going. You hemmed and hawed for weeks. Part of you wanted to stay curled up at home with the girls, Nate, and the almost completed nursery. The other part, the competitive, sassy little redhead who’d never backed down from a dare, didn’t want to let Debbie or the gossip machine win by making you disappear completely.

Eventually you decided to go. But on your terms.

You walked the red carpet solo in a fitted black gown that skimmed your tiny frame and artfully showcased the gentle swell of your belly. Marshall arrived separately, back to that damn bleached blond hair for the cameras that you’d already threatened to shave it off again the second you got him home. You didn’t pose together. You didn’t hold hands. You didn’t even sit next to each other inside during the show. The whole world already knew you were married, you made sure of that, and that you were pregnant thanks to Debbie's venom. But you and Marshall had always guarded your privacy like it was sacred. You agreed, quietly in bed one night, that you weren’t giving the media anything more than they already had. No confirmation. No cutesy couple moments. No feeding the circus.

When interviewers shoved microphones in your face on the red carpet, asking about the wedding, the baby, or “your relationship with Eminem,” you cocked your head with that signature confused tilt, red waves falling over one shoulder, and answered every single question with music.

“Oh, the nominations? I’m just thrilled the album resonated. The songs were really personal, especially the ones about feeling empowered on your own. I'd never want to be defined by who I'm sleeping with.” Smile. Flash the diamond, still proudly on your finger with your wedding band tucked underneath it. Pivot back to production credits and songwriting.

Marshall, the absolute shithead he was, was having way too much fun with it. Every time someone brought up “Katie Grey” he’d furrow his brow in exaggerated confusion, squinting like he was trying to place the name. “Katie who? Grey? Nah, man, I got no clue who the fuck that is.”  Then, with a lazy grin and a shrug: “She sounds hot though.”

He said it the first time during a quick backstage interview and nearly broke character when the reporter blinked in disbelief. After that, it became his go-to bit. He delivered the line with perfect deadpan timing, always without even the ghost of a smile afterwards. Just giving them nothing. 

You watched the clips later from the comfort of your hotel suite, shaking your head and laughing until your sides hurt. Marshall sprawled beside you on the bed, still half in his awards-show outfit, looking ridiculously pleased with himself.

“You’re ridiculous,” you told him, poking his side. “The whole world knows we’re married and I’m carrying your baby, and you’re out here pretending you’ve never heard of me like some comedy routine.”

He grinned, rolling over to cage you gently beneath him, careful of your bump. “It’s funny as hell. They ask about ‘Katie Grey’ and I get to say she sounds hot, because my wife is hot. And technically? I’m not lying. Katie Mathers is the only one I know.” His hand slid down to rest warmly over your stomach. “Plus it pisses off my mom. Bonus.”

You laughed again, looping your arms around his neck and pulling him down for a kiss. “You’re such a shit. But yeah… it’s kind of fun. Watching them scramble while we just enjoy our little secret life.”

The rest of awards season played out the same way. You stayed polite and music-focused. Marshall kept up the playful oblivious act, dropping “She sounds hot though” like it was his catchphrase. Fans and commentators lost their minds trying to figure out if you two were ever actually together, already broken up, or just trolling everyone. The speculation only grew louder, but it rolled right off both of you.

At home, the contrast was deliciously ridiculous.

You’d come back from one show he didn't go to, kick off your shoes, and immediately tackle Marshall into one of your signature hugs while the girls giggled and Nate pretended to gag. He’d spin you around, carefully because he was painfully careful with you now, kiss the top of your red head, and murmur, “Missed my wife... Katie Grey can stay on the red carpet. Katie Mathers belongs right here.”

The pregnancy progressed quietly and steadily. Your bump finally started to pop in a way that made loose dresses necessary, but you still kept things private, no actual pregnancy confirmation, no pre-selling photos, no interviews. The girls were thrilled, already fighting over who would hold the baby first. Nate took on the role of protective big brother/uncle with surprising seriousness even baby proofing his own room just in case. Marshall rubbed your feet after long days and talked to your belly in low, stupid voices when he thought no one was listening.

Debbie kept throwing barbs from the sidelines, but her words lost power every time Marshall came home and chose you, chose the quiet domestic life you’d built together over the chaos she represented. One night in March, after another awards show where you’d both played your roles perfectly, you lay tangled in bed together. Your head rested on his chest, his fingers playing with your red hair while his other hand rested on the curve of your stomach, feeling the occasional flutter of movement.

“You know,” you whispered, smiling against his skin, “for two people who have kept our personal lives out of the public eye, we’re doing a pretty good job of driving the entire entertainment industry insane with our private life.”

Marshall chuckled, the sound rumbling under your ear. “Let ‘em stay insane. I’ve got my wife, my kids, and our little one on the way. Everything else is just noise.”

You hugged him tighter, the same way you had since you were five years old.

---

As April crept closer and your official due date loomed on the calendar, you started sticking even closer to home. The nursery was fully ready, soft pink tones, a crib Marshall had assembled himself (with only mild cursing), tiny onesies folded neatly in drawers, and a rocking chair positioned by the window where you could already picture late-night feedings. The girls had “helped” decorate with drawings of butterflies taped to the walls, and Nate had quietly contributed a stuffed bear he’d picked out on one of his trips to the store.

No one looking at you would ever guess you were days away from giving birth.

You were still so small, your tiny frame barely showing more than a neat, compact bump that could be hidden under oversized hoodies or flowy maternity tops. Most days you looked like the same fiery little redhead who’d been Marshall’s best friend since kindergarten, just a little rounder in the middle and moving a bit slower. The doctor had reassured you at your most recent appointment that everything was perfect: the baby was head-down, healthy, and measuring right on track. “Some women just carry small, especially with their first,” she’d said with a smile. “You’re built for this. Just listen to your body and rest when you need to.”

So you rested. A lot.

You spent lazy mornings in the kitchen with Hailie and Alaina, letting them “help” make breakfast while they chattered about baby names and whether the new sibling would have chaotic red curls like yours or dark brown hair like their dad’s. Marshall would stumble in from the studio or a late meeting, already half-asleep, and wrap his arms around you from behind, hands splaying gently over your bump as he pressed a kiss to the side of your neck.

“Morning, shorty,” he’d murmur against your skin. “How’s our little squish today?”

“Active,” you’d reply, smiling as the baby gave a solid kick right under his palm. “Definitely your kid, already arguing with me about sleep schedules.” It's a playful jab, because he's been running himself ragged and sleep is becoming an issue for him. 

The girls would giggle and demand to feel, their small hands joining Marshall’s in a ridiculous pile on your stomach until the baby obliged with another flutter. Nate would watch from the doorway with a shy grin, pretending he wasn’t just as excited.

Marshall had cleared his schedule as much as humanly possible as the due date approached. No studio sessions after midnight, no unnecessary meetings. He was home every night, rubbing your swollen feet while you lay on the couch, watching whatever dumb movie the kids picked. The world outside still buzzed with speculation, headlines about your “mysterious” pregnancy, Debbie’s occasional bitter jabs, whispers about whether you and Eminem were even speaking, but none of it touched the four walls of your house. One quiet evening in early April, the contractions still nowhere in sight, you and Marshall were alone in the bedroom after the kids had gone to bed. You were in one of his oversized hoodies, because nothing else felt comfortable anymore even as small as you were, you didn't feel like yourself, curled against his side while he traced lazy circles over your bump.

“I can’t believe how small I still look,” you muttered, glancing down at yourself. “I feel like I should be waddling around like a beach ball by now. The doctor says everything’s fine, but part of me keeps waiting for the big ‘any day now’ explosion.”

Marshall chuckled, the sound low and warm. “You’ve always been tiny, Katie. Even pregnant you’re still my little shadow. Makes me nervous as hell, honestly, feels like I could break you if I’m not careful.”

You tilted your head up to look at him, smirking. “You’ve never broken me yet, Squish. And you’ve tried plenty of times in ever more interesting ways... .”

He grinned wickedly, but his eyes stayed soft. “Yeah, well… different kind of careful now. I just want this to go smooth for you. For both of you.”

You reached up to run your fingers through his freshly-bleached blond hair, he’d gone back to it for some promo, and you’d already threatened to fix it again the second the baby was here. “It will. We’ve got the bag packed, the car seat installed, the girls and Nate know the plan. I’m ready. I think.”

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then lower, to the curve of your bump. “We’re ready. You’ve been nesting like crazy. House has never been cleaner. And you’re still writing little melodies on the piano downstairs when you think no one’s listening.”

You smiled, a soft flush creeping up your cheeks. “Just humming. Nothing serious. I might not tour again for a long time… but I can’t stop making music completely. It’s part of me.”

“Good,” he said simply. “Do it from here. From home. With me. With them.” His hand rubbed slow, soothing strokes over your stomach. “I like having you here. All of you. My wife. My kids. Our baby.”

The word “wife” still sent a little thrill through you every time, even months after the quiet November wedding. You hugged him tighter, burying your face in his chest the way you’d done since you were five needing that familiar comfort, that squish.

“Love you, Marsh,” you whispered.

“Love you more, Katie,” he replied, voice rough with emotion. “Now get some sleep. If this little one decides to show up tomorrow, you’re gonna need it.”

You drifted off like that, safe in his arms, the house quiet around you except for the occasional creak of settling floors and the soft sound of Marshall’s heartbeat under your ear.

---

It was only a week and a half later, mid-April, the kind of gray Michigan spring day that still carried a bite in the air, when you went in for what was supposed to be a routine check-up. You were still so small that the receptionist smiled at you like you were just there for a regular visit, but you were technically overdue by two days. Marshall sat beside you in the exam room, his hand wrapped around yours, thumb absently stroking your knuckles while the doctor did her thing. The gel was cold on your belly, the ultrasound wand gliding smoothly. Everything looked perfect, the baby’s heartbeat strong and steady.

Then the doctor sat back, peeled off her gloves, and gave you both a calm, knowing smile. “I feel good about an induction. You two ready to have a baby today?”

Your heart stuttered. You glanced at Marshall, eyes wide with sudden anxious excitement, and before you could overthink it, the old habit slipped out in a soft whisper: “Dare you.”

Marshall’s grin broke wide and sharp across his face, that familiar competitive spark lighting up his blue eyes even through the obvious nerves. He squeezed your hand tighter. “Fuck off, Katie. I’m gonna parent so fucking hard. You have no idea.”

You stuck your tongue out at him, the playful energy cutting through the rush of adrenaline. “How? I’m already wife-ing better than you. You’re a terrible wife.”

That pulled a real laugh out of him loud, surprised, the kind that filled the sterile little room and made the doctor chuckle under her breath as she started prepping for induction. “Yeah?” Marshall shot back, still grinning. “You’re a shitty husband though, shorty. I have to kill all the spiders!”

Your playful glare softened instantly, melting into something warmer, more vulnerable. You reached up with your free hand to brush a strand of his, unfortunately bleached, hair out of his eyes. “You’re a pretty great husband,” you said quietly, meaning every word.

He stroked his thumb over your knuckles again, slower this time, his voice dropping to that rough, honest tone only you ever got to hear. “Just ’cause it’s you.”

The doctor gave you both a minute, stepping out to let the nurses know they’d be moving forward with induction. The room felt smaller, heavier with anticipation, but in the best way.

Marshall leaned in, forehead resting gently against yours. “We’re really doing this today, huh? You and me. Our baby.”

You nodded, breathing him in, your squish, your best friend, your husband. “Yeah. No take-backs. Best friend rules still apply…I really can't do this without my best friend Marsh, imagining having a baby, I always just pictured some guy, but he felt replaceable. You're constant.”

He kissed you softly, careful and reverent, one hand still holding yours while the other rested low on your bump. “I’ve got you, shorty. Always have. Even when you’re being a pain in the ass and making me emotional in the delivery room.”

You laughed wetly, nerves and joy tangling together. “Good. Because I plan on squeezing your hand so hard you’ll regret daring me into forever.”

“Worth it,” he murmured against your lips.

A few hours later, after the induction meds started working and the contractions began building, the girls and Nate were safely with your dad for the night. The hospital room filled with the quiet beeps of monitors and the low murmur of nurses. You stayed relatively calm even through labor, your body handling it with the same stubborn efficiency it always had, but Marshall never left your side. He held your hand through every wave, wiped your forehead, cracked dumb jokes when the pain made you curse, and whispered filthy-sweet praise in your ear when you needed it most, including a stupid joke asking if now was a bad time to get hard, which made you laugh through a bad contraction.  And when your daughter finally entered the world, tiny, red-faced, with a surprising shock of dark hair and a loud, indignant cry, Marshall looked at her, then at you, with tears in his eyes he didn’t even try to hide.

“Look what we did, Katie,” he whispered, voice cracking as the nurse placed the baby on your chest.

You cradled her close, exhausted and glowing, red hair sticking to your damp forehead. “Our little squish.”

He leaned down, kissing your temple, then the baby’s tiny head. “She’s perfect. Just like her mom.”

Later, after the chaos of afterbirth and measuring her and what felt like an endless parade of nurses and doctors were gone and you were settled it was just the three of you in the quiet room, Marshall climbed carefully onto the bed beside you, one arm around your shoulders while you both stared at the tiny miracle between you.

“You did so good, baby. Top tier wife-ing,” he said softly.

You smiled, tired but brighter than the hospital lights. “You too, excellent husband behavior. I particularly like you trying to get into my pants while I'm giving birth, that was excellent for my self esteem. If that does it for you I'm never buying lingerie again. Even if you’re still a shitty wife for making me do all the labor myself.”

He laughed quietly, pressing another kiss to your hair. “Best dare I ever made.”

The hospital room was quiet and dim, the only light coming from a single lamp and the soft glow of the monitors. It was well past visiting hours, but Marshall had already called the house and let your dad and the kids know that she was here and perfect. He promised they could come visit tomorrow before hanging up. Now, his arm was wrapped securely around your shoulders, holding you against his chest, while his other hand gently stroked the tiny face of your daughter where she slept bundled against you.

She was so small, perfectly tiny like you, with a shock of soft, dark brown hair that already showed the slightest wave and those unmistakable blue eyes that mirrored Marshall’s exactly when she’d blinked up at the world earlier. Right now they were closed, her little rosebud mouth working in her sleep, one fist curled near her cheek. Marshall had taken what felt like a hundred pictures already, candid shots of you holding her, close-ups of her tiny fingers wrapped around his thumb, the two of you together with your hair spilling over the pillow. You’d finally made him put the camera down and just sit. Just look.

He laughed softly, leaning in to press a kiss to your temple. “Thank God she got your nose.”

You scrunched said nose at him, smiling tiredly. “I like your nose.”

“Yeah, but you’re psychotic,” he teased, voice low and warm in the quiet room.

You just smiled softer, gazing down at the perfect little bundle in your arms. “But now I’m also her mom.”

Marshall tugged you a little tighter against him, his lips brushing your hair. “Yeah, baby girl… you are.”

For a long moment you both just stayed like that leaning into each other, soaking in the new reality. Husband, wife, and the tiny person who made everything feel bigger and more fragile all at once. The exhaustion from labor still sat heavy in your bones, but the joy outweighed it by miles.

Eventually you broke the peaceful silence with a small, determined sigh. “Alright, Squish. Time to get serious! What do we name this gooey perfect little teeny tiny baby girl?" Marshall chuckles as your voice shifts into baby talk at the end. You keep calling her that, and he's blow away at this side of you. He's always know you were very girly, but he's never seen you coo over a baby quite like this before. Even Hailie, and you'd been obsessed with her. You keep going, back in your normal voice, "I’m thinking ‘Baby Girl Mathers’ is too on the nose. Lainey would hate it.”

Marshall laughed under his breath, careful not to wake the baby. “Yeah, and Hailie’s already pissed she’s not here. If we don’t have a name by the time Charlie brings them tomorrow they may riot.”

You snorted quietly, adjusting the blanket around your daughter. “Well, little ooey gooey, teeny tiny baby, you heard your daddy. What’s your name? Tabitha?”

Marshall made an immediate gagging noise beside you. “Absolutely not.”

The two of you went back and forth for easily an hour, trading ideas in hushed voices while the baby slept between you. You shot down his suggestions; he vetoed yours with dramatic groans or fake shuddering. Names flew around the room, too common, too trendy, too close to exes or family members that carried baggage. Every time one of you laughed too hard, the baby would stir with a tiny squeak, and you’d both freeze, cooing softly until she settled again.

Eventually the game slowed. Marshall went quiet for a long stretch, just watching you as you gazed down at your daughter with that soft, awed expression only new moms seem to have. His arm stayed snug around you, thumb still tracing gentle circles on your shoulder. “What if we named her Whitney…” he said after a while, voice thoughtful and low. “After your mom?”

You looked up at him, surprised, eyes widening a little. The suggestion landed gently in the quiet space between you. Whitney, your mom’s name. The woman you’d never really gotten to know because she’d died right after you were born, but whose absence had shaped so much of your early life. The name carried weight, but also love. It felt like closing a circle.

Marshall watched your face carefully, his free hand still lightly stroking the baby’s cheek. “Only if you want. I just… thought it might mean something. She’d have a piece of you in her name. The part that came before me tugging your braid at that stop sign.”

You swallowed, emotion tightening your throat as you looked back down at the tiny girl with Marshall’s eyes and your stubborn little chin. Whitney. It fit. It felt right, soft but strong, simple but full of history.

“I like it,” you whispered finally, voice thick. “Whitney Mathers. Our Whitney.”

Marshall’s grin was slow and warm, the kind that reached his eyes and made the years of chaos feel distant. He leaned in and kissed you gently, then pressed one to the top of the baby’s head. “Whitney it is, then,” he murmured. “Welcome to the family, little girl. Your mom’s already the best hug-giver in the world, and your dad… well, he’s gonna try real hard not to fuck this up.”

You laughed softly, leaning your head against his shoulder as the three of you settled into the quiet hospital night. Whitney made another small sound in her sleep, and Marshall’s arm tightened around you both. Tomorrow the older kids would arrive in a whirlwind of excitement and questions. The world outside would eventually find out about the newest Mathers you're sure. But right now, in this stolen late-night moment, it was just the three of you.

Best friends who’d dared their way into forever.  

Now parents to a tiny girl with soft brown hair and her daddy’s eyes.

Whitney Mathers.

He shook his head, quickly wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “I can’t help it, kiddo. My little girl is getting married.”

Neither of you paid any attention to the quiet videographer or the photographer snapping discreet shots in the corner. Your dad stepped closer, eyes tracing every detail of your face, the loose red waves, the simple dress, the diamond that now meant so much more than anyone outside this room knew. “You look just like your mom…” he said, voice thick.

You smiled softly, blinking back the sudden sting in your own eyes, and let him pull you into a tight hug. He smelled like the same aftershave he’d worn your whole life, comforting, steady, home. “You sure you want to get married?” he murmured against your hair, half-teasing, half-serious. “I can pull the car around right now. We’ll ditch this whole thing and go get ice cream instead. My treat.”

You laughed, the sound watery as your eyes started watering for real. “I think I want to get married, Dad.”

He sighed dramatically, pulling back just enough to look at you again. “At least it’s Marshall. I’ve been waiting for you two idiots to stop being stupid about each other since you were kids.”

You giggled, the tension easing a little as the coordinator waved urgently from the doorway. Your dad offered his arm, and you slipped your hand through it, letting him guide you toward the aisle. The whole way down the short aisle he kept up a running whisper of jokes, low enough for only you to hear. “If you change your mind, just squeeze my arm twice and we bolt. I’ve got the keys in my pocket. Ice cream’s still on the table.” Another step. “Or we could fake a medical emergency. I’m a great actor, I pretended to like that last guy you dated.” You had to bite your lip to keep from laughing out loud as guests turned to watch, soft smiles on their faces.

But the second you reached the end of the aisle and your eyes locked with Marshall’s, everything else faded. He looked at you like you were the only thing in the room, like you were still the tiny five-year-old he’d led across the street, and also the woman he couldn’t wait to spend the rest of his life with. His expression was soft, intense, a little stunned.

Your dad fixed Marshall with a serious look, refusing to let go of your hand right away. “I’m giving you my baby, Marshall.”

Marshall met your dad’s eyes steadily and nodded once. “I know, Charlie.”

Your dad swallowed roughly, emotion thickening his voice. “She’s all I got… Take care of her.”

Marshall’s gaze shifted to you for a heartbeat, warm, certain, before returning to your father. “She’s all I got too.”

That was enough. Your dad nodded, eyes glistening, and finally placed your hand in Marshall’s. He shook his head with a small, knowing smile, muttering as he stepped back to sit down, “Always knew it was gonna be Marshall. Damn kids took long enough.”

The ceremony was small and intimate, exactly what you both wanted. Traditional vows, nothing fancy or over-the-top. Simple promises spoken in front of the handful of people who mattered most: the girls beaming in their flower girl dresses, Nate acting like a cool teenager who definitely wasn't hiding the fact that he was trying not to cry, Proof grinning like a proud older brother beside Marshall as the best man, while Allison stood beside you as your Maid of Honor, a few other close friends and family watching with quiet smiles.

You still cried a little when Marshall slid the new ring onto your finger, simple yellow gold to match your engagement ring, fitting perfectly beside the big oval diamond. His voice was steady but rough when he said “I do,” thumb brushing over your knuckles like he was grounding himself. When the officiant finally said, “You may now kiss your wife,” Marshall didn’t hesitate. He grinned that wicked, boyish grin you’d loved since you were five, wrapped an arm around your waist, and dipped you low in one smooth motion. The kiss was deep, joyful, a little possessive, full of years of friendship and months of new heat. You laughed against his mouth even as happy tears slipped down your cheeks, one hand clutching his suit jacket so you wouldn’t fall. The small group clapped and cheered as he brought you back up, forehead resting against yours for a second while the girls whooped the loudest.

“Mrs. Mathers,” he murmured, only for you, eyes bright.

You smiled up at him, radiant. “About damn time, Squish.”

The rest of the afternoon blurred into quiet celebration, simple food, laughter, the girls dragging everyone onto the dance floor. You stayed tucked against Marshall’s side as much as possible, his hand occasionally drifting to rest protectively over your still-flat stomach, the secret the two of you now shared making every moment feel even more precious. Later that night, after the girls were tucked into bed with promises of a proper family vacation to celebrate someday soon, you curled up in Marshall’s arms in the big bed you already shared but now it felt more permanent. The pregnancy test was safely tucked away in the top drawer of his nightstand, and the weight of the new rings on your finger felt like the most natural thing in the world.

You whispered against his chest, “We’re really doing this. Married. Baby on the way. All of it.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of your red head, hand splaying gently over your belly. “Yeah, Katie. We are. Best friend rules just got permanent.”

You smiled, eyes drifting shut as exhaustion and joy settled over you both.

And neither of you had ever been happier.

---

The morning after the wedding felt like waking up in a dream that refused to end. You and Marshall had barely slept, too busy tangled up in each other, whispering about the baby, replaying the way your dad had handed you over, laughing at how Hailie and Alaina had demanded three separate dances with “the new mom” during the tiny reception. The rings on your finger still felt brand new and perfectly familiar at the same time. Mrs. Mathers. Katie Mathers. It sounded ridiculous and right.

Twenty-four hours later, while the girls were at school and the two of you were still hiding out in the house like newlyweds who didn’t want the world to intrude yet, you sat cross-legged on the living room couch watching TV. Marshall was stretched out beside you, one hand resting possessively on your thigh, the other scribbling lyrics in a notebook. You were waiting on the music video for the brand-new single you’d pushed into existence in the final weeks of promo.

The song was called “Best Friend" and it was nothing like anything on Kaitlyn.

Where your album had been glossy, cheeky pop anthems celebrating singledom and self-love, along Pro being a chart topping breakout track proudly bragging about how well your mystery guy ate pussy, this one was raw, stripped-back, and devastatingly sincere. Acoustic guitar, soft layered vocals, a gentle swell of strings in the chorus. The lyrics poured out everything you’d never said out loud in interviews:

“I’ve been holding your hand since I was five,

You pulled my braid and changed my life,

Through every storm, every fight, every mile,

You’re the only one who’s ever felt like home…”

It was an over-the-top, sappy love song about marrying your best friend, the one who knew every version of you, who tolerated your endless hugs, who dared you into forever when the world felt like it was falling apart. The video itself was shot intimately, secretly, with mood shots that you'd filmed in the days leading up to the wedding. You’d kept the footage deliberately vague. Soft, dreamy shots of a bride in a simple ivory dress walking down an aisle, hands being joined, a low dip-and-kiss moment where the groom’s face stayed mostly in shadow or turned away from the camera. Close-ups of your red hair spilling over a white pillow, fingers laced together, quiet laughter in dimly lit rooms. No clear shots of Marshall’s face until the very end. The whole thing built like a slow reveal: childhood flashbacks mixed with present-day tenderness, all underscoring the theme of turning your oldest friendship into marriage. Viewers would assume it was artistic storytelling right up until the final ten seconds.

The screen faded to black, then filled with a montage of real photos.

Real pictures.

You at five with messy red braids, standing next to a scruffy seven-year-old Marshall at the stop sign.

The two of you as kids on bikes, you perched on his handlebars.

Teenage you tackling him in a hug while he pretended to hate it.

Backstage shots from tours, you curled against his side during late nights in the studio.

Candid moments from the last few months:

His hand on your waist at a BBQ.

Your head on his shoulder while you were watching TV.

Both of you laughing in the kitchen with the girls.

And finally, the wedding itself:

That first kiss as his wife.

Your dad’s emotional face during the father-daughter dance.

The girls throwing flower petals while Marshall laughs at their silly antics as they walked down the aisle.

All those images slowly arranged themselves on screen, forming the date in big, glowing numbers:

11/11

Then the screen cut to black with one line of white text:

11.11.01

The video dropped on TRL at 3:35.

By the next morning the story had exploded, you and Marshall were everywhere.

Your “best friends ring” jokes suddenly made devastating sense. The cheeky, sex-positive album you’d just promoted now sat in stark contrast to this earnest, heart-on-sleeve declaration. Fans who had been blasting “Pro” on repeat were now crying over acoustic guitars and childhood photos. Tabloids that had spent weeks speculating scrambled to connect the dots: the tiny redhead pop star and Eminem had been best friends since they were kids… and apparently they’d just secretly gotten married on 11/11.

You and Marshall watched the commentary roll in, when you actually made the real news and not just entertainment news he looked at you with one eyebrow raised, a smug little grin tugging at his mouth. “They’re losing their fucking minds, shorty.”

You leaned against his shoulder, still in one of his hoodies, legs draped over his lap. “Good. Let them. I got to release the sappiest song I’ve ever written using our actual wedding footage. Paul can keep crying about ‘keeping it simple’ all he wants.”

He chuckled, sliding his hand under the hoodie to rest warmly over your stomach, still hiding the tiny secret that made this all feel even more perfect. “You happy?”

“So happy,” you whispered, turning to kiss his jaw. “I got to marry you," He cuts you off, "You had no choice. I dared you into it..." You scrunch your face up at him playfully, but continue like he hadn't interrupted, "and then drop a video that basically says ‘yeah, I’ve been in love with my best friend the whole time.’ And no one saw it coming.”

Marshall’s thumb traced slow circles on your skin. “Efficient as hell. Got married, knocked you up, and told the world all in under a month.”

You laughed softly, nuzzling closer. “I mean only the wedding and telling people happened in a month... but yeah. Only us.”

The phone calls started coming in, your publicist panicking in the best way, Hailie and Alaina squealing when they got home from school and saw the video for the first time, Proof calling and taunting Marshall about his girl ruining his street cred. But in the quiet of the house, with the girls eventually piling onto the couch and even managing to coax Nate into joining for an impromptu family movie night, you and Marshall stayed exactly where you belonged: tangled together, your head on his chest, his arm around you, the new rings catching the light from the TV.

Best friends.

Husband and wife.

And the whole world finally knew what you’d known since you were five years old: