Chapter 22
William
The dream is so vivid I can smell the hospital disinfectant, feel the uncomfortable plastic chair beneath me, hear the beeping of monitors.
Carina is on the bed, her face flushed with exertion but radiant with joy.
She's gripping Travis's hand while Knox smooths her hair back, and I'm standing at the foot of the bed feeling utterly useless and completely essential at the same time.
"One more push," the doctor says, and Carina bears down with a determination I've seen her bring to everything—cooking, loving us, surviving.
"You're doing amazing," Travis murmurs, always the steady presence.
"Fucking superhero," Knox adds, which makes her laugh even through the pain.
And then there's a cry. High and indignant and perfect.
"It's a boy," the doctor announces, and my chest cracks open with a joy so intense it's almost painful.
They place him on Carina's chest, this tiny, perfect person we've somehow made between the four of us. I know biologically that's impossible, but in the dream logic, he's all of ours. Knox's artistic fingers, Travis's steady eyes, my stubborn chin, and Carina's radiant smile.
"He's perfect," she whispers, tears streaming down her face. "Look what we made."
"What's his name?" Knox asks, reaching out to touch the baby's impossibly small hand.
"Nicholas," Carina says without hesitation. "For new beginnings."
Travis kisses her forehead. Knox is openly crying. And I... I'm frozen by the intensity of it all. This is everything I never knew I needed. Family, messy, complicated, and perfect. No contracts, just love multiplied by four.
The dream shifts, and now we're home—though not any home I recognize.
It's warm and lived-in, toys scattered across the floor, Knox's paintings mixed with crayon drawings on the walls.
Carina is in the kitchen, teaching Nicholas to make cookies while he stands on a step stool, his chubby hands covered in flour.
"Papa Will is gonna be mad," the boy says with a grin that's pure Knox. "We're making a mess."
"Papa Will needs to learn that messes can be beautiful," Carina tells him, booping his nose with a flour-covered finger. "Besides, he can't resist our cookies."
And she's right. Dream-me walks into that chaotic kitchen and feels nothing but contentment. No need to fix or manage anything. Just... happiness.
"Daddy!" Nicholas launches himself at me, and I catch him easily, flour and all.
"Hey, buddy. Making Christmas cookies?"
"The best ones! Mama says we can leave some for Santa, but I think Uncle Knox will eat them all first."
"Probably true," I agree, carrying him to the counter where Carina is rolling dough. "Need help?"
"Always," she says, and the look she gives me is everything—love and trust and partnership without power struggles.
This is what I want. This is what I've always wanted.
The knock on my door pulls me from the dream so abruptly I'm disoriented. For a moment, I can still smell cookies baking, still feel the phantom weight of a child in my arms.
"William?" Carina's voice, soft and uncertain. "Are you awake?"
I glance at the clock. 6:42 AM. Christmas morning.
"Come in," I call, sitting up and running a hand through my hair.
She enters carrying a small wrapped box, wearing the dress from our wine tasting disaster. Her hair is down, catching the early morning light, and she looks so beautiful it takes my breath away.
"Merry Christmas," she says, still hovering by the door. "I wanted... I thought maybe we could have a moment before the others wake up."
"Carina." Her name comes out rougher than intended, heavy with the dream still clinging to me.
She moves closer, perching on the edge of my bed with careful distance between us. "I know things have been... difficult. But it's Christmas. And I got you something."
She holds out the box, wrapped in paper covered with tiny reindeer. It's slightly crooked, like she wrapped it herself instead of having it professionally done. That small imperfection breaks something loose in me.
"You didn't have to—"
"I wanted to." She sets it in my hands. "Open it."
Inside is a coffee mug. Black ceramic with a simple design—the outline of mountains against a sunrise. But there's text beneath it, elegant script that reads: "Control the chaos—one cup at a time."
"I found it at the Christmas market," she says quickly, like she's nervous about my reaction. "That day you were in meetings. I know it's silly, but it made me think of you and—"
"It's perfect." And it is. It's her telling me she sees me—while gently calling me out on my shit. It's criticism wrapped in care, challenge delivered with love.
"Really?"
"Really." I trace the mountain outline with my finger. "Though I should point out that controlling coffee is much easier than controlling people."
"That's the point." She smiles, small but real. "Coffee doesn't have feelings. It doesn't need freedom or trust or—"
"Love." The word escapes before I can stop it. "It doesn't need love."
"No," she agrees quietly. "It doesn't."
We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of the past few days heavy between us. The way I’ve been spiraling, her recognition of patterns, the walls I've rebuilt out of fear.
"Your gift isn't wrapped," I say suddenly. "I have something for you, but I haven't... I've been..."
"Busy trying to put everything into a neat little box?"
"Something like that." I move to my closet, pulling out a folder. Not very romantic, but then I've never been good at romance. "Here."
She opens it, confusion crossing her face as she reads. "William, this is..."
"A contract. For your consulting work. Not just with Klaus, but with three other suppliers who've requested your services.
" I sit back down, maintaining distance because if I touch her now I might never let go.
"Your own business, separate from Eden. Travis helped with the structure.
You'll have full autonomy, your own accounts, your own decisions. "
"But I work for you."
"You work with us on a sub-contractor basis. This gives you independence. Security. If things with us... if you decide..." I can't finish the sentence. Can't voice the possibility that she might leave.
"You're giving me an exit strategy," she says softly.
"I'm giving you freedom." The words taste like ash and hope mixed together. "I've been an asshole because I'm terrified of losing you. But I realized—actually, I dreamed—" I stop, shake my head. "I realized that holding too tight is exactly how I'll lose you."
She sets the folder aside and moves closer. "Tell me about the dream."
"It's silly."
"Tell me anyway."
So I do. I tell her about the hospital, the baby, the messy kitchen full of love. I tell her how happy we all were, how natural it felt to share that life, that family, that future.
"We can't have a baby with three biological fathers," she points out when I finish, but she's smiling.
"I'm aware of the biological impossibilities." I risk touching her hand. "But the feeling was real. The certainty that we could build something together. All of us. Without me trying to control every aspect."
"That's all I want," she whispers. "For you to trust us. Trust me. Trust yourself."
"I don't know how." The admission costs me, but it's Christmas morning and I'm tired of pretending. "I've been in like this for so long, I don't know how to change."
"Start small," she suggests. "What's one thing you could let go of today?"
I think about the schedule I made, the rules, the phone embargo. "Everyone gets to do exactly what they want to today."
"That's a start." She squeezes my hand. "What else?"
"The phones. Everyone gets their phones back."
"Good. What else?"
"I could..." I take a breath. "I could trust that you all love me enough to weather this storm. That I don't have to fix everything alone."
"Yes," she breathes, shifting closer. "You could trust that."
"I'm going to fail," I warn her. "I'm going to slip back into old patterns."
"I know." She cups my face with her free hand. "But we'll call you on it. Every time. Until you learn."
"What if I can't learn? What if I'm too broken?"
"Then we'll love your broken pieces while you heal." She leans in, resting her forehead against mine. "That's what family does."
Family. The word echoes from my dream, full of possibility.
"I love you," I tell her. "I love what we're building even though it terrifies me. Even though I have no idea how to make it work."
"I love you, too, William. And the rest we'll figure it out together." She kisses me softly, a promise. "One messy day at a time."
"You already gave me so much," she says when we part. "This opportunity, this adventure, standing up to Dylan—"
"That's not a gift. That's what you do for people you love." I trace her cheekbone with my thumb. "You've given me more. You've shown me there's life beyond running a company. That chaos can be beautiful. That love multiplied doesn't divide—it exponentiates."
"Did you just use a math metaphor for emotion?"
"I'm still me," I defend. "Just... working on being a better version."
She laughs, and it's the best sound I've heard in days. "I don't want a different version. I want you. Warts and all. I just want you to choose love over fear."
"I'm trying." I pull her closer, needing her warmth. "I'm really trying."
"I know." She burrows into my side, and we sit like that for a long moment, just breathing together.
"We should tell the others," I say eventually. "About the phones. The schedule. My temporary insanity."
"They know about the insanity," she says dryly. "But yes, we should talk to them."
"Together?"
"Together."
We stand, and I grab my new mug, already planning to retire my old one. This one means something. This one is about who I'm becoming, not who I've been.
"William?" Carina pauses at the door. "The dream. Do you really want that? The baby, the craziness, the whole family thing?"
"I want whatever you want," I say automatically, then catch myself. "No, that's not... I want it. For me. The mess and noise and love all mixed together. I never thought I'd want children, but with you, with all of us... yes. Someday."
"Someday," she agrees, and there's wonder in her voice. "But first, we need to survive Christmas."
"And the media circus."
"And implementing small changes, one day at a time."
"And coordinating four people's schedules for date nights."
"And Knox's lactose intolerance."
We're both laughing now, listing ridiculous obstacles we need to overcome, but none of them seem insurmountable anymore.
Not when she's looking at me like I'm worth the trouble.
Not when I can smell coffee brewing downstairs and know Travis is up.
Not when I can hear Knox singing off-key somewhere downstairs.
This is my family. Messy, complicated, and all mine.
"Ready?" Carina asks, hand on the doorknob.
"No," I admit. "But let's do it anyway."
She opens the door, and we step into Christmas morning together.
I can do this. We can do this.
One wild, chaotic, perfect day at a time.