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They moved from Beacon Hills to San Francisco after college, first sharing an apartment, then moving to their house after Erica revealed her pregnancy (which, for the record, Boyd already knew about but didn't want to force her into telling him until she was ready to). They'd cleared out the room for the nursery the day after, and Erica told everyone a day after that. Boyd can't help but smile, thinking about the way her face lit up while she was the phone to her parents and their friends.
He reaches down and grabs the roller that lies in the container of light green paint, resting it against the white primed wall before he moves his arm up to reach the spot where the wall and ceiling met. There are three months left before he and Erica become parents (“To the most perfect little girl ever,” Erica says at least once a day), and he’s definitely excited, but he’s also a bit… scared--though he’ll never admit it. But, as he's said more than once, Boyd wouldn't be doing this with anyone else, and he's glad that it's Erica. That it's always been Erica.
He can hear the music she’s singing along to from the kitchen--definitely a Selena song, he knows that much--and he can’t help but bob his head to the beat. He loves listening to her sing, especially at night when she sings to the baby under her breath, low enough so he can just barely hear her. The music is pouring in through the door and Boyd’s hips start swaying before he notices that Erica’s leaning against the doorframe, stifling a chuckle. “I thought you couldn’t dance, Vernon,” she teases.
“I can’t,” he smiles over his shoulder, still painting the wall top to bottom. “Remember prom?” Prom--where Boyd’s rhythmic discrepancies left Erica with a sprained ankle after he accidentally tripped her while attempting to dance. Erica responds to his question with a wild guffaw, one that makes her blush and cover her mouth. “I’ll take that as a yes.” He shakes his head and turns back to the wall.
Erica saunters over to him and runs her hand up his bare arm, quietly praising him for only ever wearing a thin, fitted tank top while in the house. Her light fingers contrast so greatly on his dark skin, it makes her tilt her head a bit. It still fills her with awe how someone who could be classified as her polar opposite turned out to be the love of her life. She’s a blinding light, he’s a comforting darkness. She’s always quick to reply, he always stops to process. Almost ten years since she first saw him sitting alone at the back table in the cafeteria in their freshman year at Beacon Hills High School, and she still finds herself amazed by his very existence. “Prom was forever ago, Boyd,” she smiles, standing between him and the wet wall as he bends down to put the roller in the container. She brings her hands up to the back of his neck sweetly, an impish grin on her face. “Dance with me.”
“Do you have a death wish or something?” He laughs, then presses a kiss to her lips. “I doubt I can dance any better now than I did then.”
“Danny begs to differ.”
Boyd pauses, his mouth open just a bit. “Does he? And since when do you talk to my exes?” His hands drop to her waist and he pulls her along with him as he steps away from the freshly painted wall. He doesn’t know who else knows about his and Danny’s relationship, as the two kept it quiet for the duration--not out of shame as some would assume, but out of the difficulty of explaining to Danny’s parents that his boyfriend was a lycanthrope and to Boyd’s grandmother, her son was romantically involved with another boy. He’s never regretted it, though.
“Since your ex happens to be my ex’s best friend.” Lydia and Erica happened once, too. The two always clashed but it worked, somehow. Despite the extremely public, extremely loud break-up, the two also remained friends. Except the brief period of time when Lydia and Boyd happened. But Erica chooses not to remember that that did happen.
“Your ex and my ex also happen to be the same person.”
Erica scoffs. “Yeah, only one of them.”
“So, you still want me to dance with you?” Boyd smiles down at Erica.
“With your two left feet?” Erica pulls him down for a kiss. “Yeah. I do.”
“Good,” Boyd takes one of her hands in his, twining their fingers together. He stares down, trying to see his feet, if they’re moving right, but her stomach is obstructing his view and he can’t help but laugh.
The music continues to flow through the house and into the room as Boyd spins Erica into him. She laughs and spins out, their arms outsretched and hands still connected. “You’ve been practicing,” she quips, an eyebrow arched.
“Danny taught me,” he shrugs, letting her hand drop as he brings his to his hips. “He said, ‘You can’t have a girl like Erica and not know how to dance, dude.’”
“Aw, Danny knows his ex’s baby mama so well,” she puts her hand over her heart, feigning coyness.
“Yeah, but I also figured I should know how to dance for our wedding.” Erica’s smile drops and her face whitens for a moment as Boyd gets down on one knee.
“What are you doing?” Erica steps back, her eyes wide with something resembling fear and a hand over her mouth.
He looks up at her from the floor with a smile. “Tying my shoe. Obviously.”
“Ugh!” She gasps and hits him before the color returns to her face. “Boyd!” She hits him again, then once more for good measure. “Seriously, I can’t believe you,” she gives him a shove that sends him falling backwards into the container of paint still on the ground. Boyd looks up at her, his eyebrows raised in disbelief of what had occurred. “Don’t,” Erica shakes her head, “Do not do what I think you’re about to do, Boyd.”
“I’m not about to do anything,” Boyd chuckles lightly, pulling himself up out of the paint and off the floor. He starts wiping the paint off the back of his jeans and asks, “What do you think I’m about to do?”
She eyes him with a frown, still skeptical. “You’re about to throw paint on me. I know you are.”
“Me? Never,” he laughs and takes a step towards her, a smile all but evil on his face.
“Boyd,” she warns.
“What?”
“Boyd!”
“Yes?”
“I swear to God, Boyd…” He’s standing an inch away from her, still smiling at the way she’s practically shaking in anticipation of what he’s about to do.
“I can’t believe,” he drops his voice to a dull whisper, “That you’d think I would throw paint on you.” He tilts his head innocently before he smears the paint from his jeans across her face. “I’m not that mean.” Erica stands there, her jaw practically on the floor. Nothing comes out of her mouth for a minute, except for a small shocked noise. “That’s what you get. Wait…” Boyd shakes his head, “I know that look.”
“What look?”
“The look that means I’m in trouble and you’re probably planning to kill me. Or something like that.”
“I have no idea what you mean.” Erica bats her eyelashes and Boyd shakes his head again.
“Just do it. Put more paint on me. I know you want to.”
“Aw, baby,” she bends down (much slower than usual, watching him twitch a bit every inch she dropped) and grabs the bucket of paint from behind her. “You know me so well!” She tosses the paint at him and can’t hold back her laugh as she douses him in the light green liquid.
Boyd nods wordlessly, his arms outstretched. He blinks his eyes a few times, trying to get the paint dripping from his eyelashes to stop. “Got it out of your system?”
“Mm-hmm,” Erica chirps, the single smear of paint across her face already dry.
“Great.” He takes a step toward her, his arms still wide open. “Give me a hug, babe.”
“What!? Oh, my God, Boyd, no!” Erica moves away from him, a smile on her face despite the fear of this impending hug. “Don’t you dare!”
“Your boyfriend doesn’t get a hug? That’s mean,” he pouts, walking closer to her still, the paint dripping from his arms and hands. “Come on, E. Let me get a hug.”
“Boyd, I will kill you! I sw--” Boyd wraps his arms around her, squeezing her just a bit before dropping his head and nuzzling her neck. “You are so lucky I can’t run fast, Vernon Milton Boyd.”
“Uh,” he looks up and presses a quick kiss to her cheek, leaving a lip shaped green mark on her skin, “You forgot ‘The Fourth.’”
“And forgot you were an asshole, too.” She kisses the top of his head sweetly and can’t help the quiet chuckle that forms in the back of her throat. “But you’re my favorite asshole. Definitely. Maybe.”
Boyd gives her a kiss and rests a hand on her stomach before he pulls up her shirt and touches his lips to her skin. “You know,” Erica says quietly, “This gives us a reason to take a shower. Together. Right now.”
He looks up, eyebrows arched. “You’re already pregnant, though…”
“Oh, I know." She smirks at him, then turns on her heel and walks over to the door. She leans against the frame for a moment, only to say, "That just means I can't get pregnant again." She practically chasses out of the room, leaving Boyd standing there with a pleasantly surprised look on his face. “I’ll be in the shower,” she calls down the hall in a sing-song voice that sends Boyd high-tailing it out of the nursery and over to the bathroom.