36. Theo
THEO
The world had shrunk.
For the last three days, my entire universe consisted of a small hospital room—the beeping of monitors, the rustle of sheets, Peyton’s steady presence in the chair by the window, Dalton’s warm hand in mine, and the tiny, miraculous weight of Hope in my arms.
But now, the world was expanding again. And it was terrifying.
“Car seat is secure in the middle,” Peyton announced, his voice tight with the specific kind of alpha intensity he reserved for serious missions. He double-checked the strap for the third time, his large hand gentle as he adjusted the blanket tucked around Hope’s sleeping form.
“She’s fine, Peyton,” Dalton soothed from the backseat, though I noticed he was hovering just as much, his fingers tracing the curve of the plastic handle. “She’s sleeping.”
I stood by the open car door, clutching the discharge papers like a shield.
The Florida sun was bright, too bright after days of fluorescent lights, and the air smelled like salt and exhaust. It felt strange to be wearing my own clothes again, a pair of sweatpants and one of Peyton’s oversized t-shirts that Dalton had packed for me.
My body felt different. Softer. Emptier, but also fuller in a way I couldn’t articulate.
“You okay, sweets?”
I looked over to see Dalton watching me, his eyes crinkled with concern.
He was sitting in the back next to the car seat, exactly where he’d said he would be.
His “I’m not letting her ride back there alone, Peyton, don’t even ask” was etched into my memory.
As if she’d be alone. I would be back there with her.
“Yeah,” I breathed, sliding into the empty seat next to my daughter. “Just… it’s really happening. We’re taking her home.”
I looked down at my hands, then back at the car seat where Hope lay secured.
A wave of surreal panic washed over me. Were they really just letting us leave?
Just like that? We walked in as three guys with a hospital bag and a lot of nerves, and we were walking out with a whole human being.
A tiny, fragile, perfect human who was entirely dependent on us to keep her alive.
It felt reckless. It felt like a clerical error.
But then I looked at Dalton, hovering over her like a guardian gargoyle, and Peyton, checking the mirrors with lethal precision, and the panic subsided into a quiet, vibrating wonder. She was ours. No doctors, no nurses, no monitors. Just us.
Peyton climbed into the driver’s seat, the engine already idling. He adjusted the rearview mirror—not to see the traffic, I suspected, but to keep eyes on the backseat cargo. “We are,” he said. “Home.”
The drive was the slowest journey of my life. Peyton, who usually drove like he owned the road, was cruising five miles under the speed limit, his hands at ten and two. Every pothole was an enemy combatant. Every lane change was a tactical maneuver.
I spent most of the ride home watching Hope. She was so small in the car seat, a tiny bundle of pink knit and dark fuzz. She slept through it all, completely unaware that her fathers were collectively holding their breath.
When we pulled into the driveway of our home in Sugar Beach, I felt a lump form in my throat.
It wasn’t just a house; it was our sanctuary.
The warm coral stucco seemed to glow in the afternoon sun, and the yard, which Peyton had transformed into a lush paradise of native flowers, was bursting with color.
Seeing it now, with our daughter in the backseat, it felt different.
It felt like the starting line of the rest of our lives.
A place where Hope would learn to walk, where we’d grow old, where we would fill every room with memories we hadn’t made yet.
“We’re here,” Dalton whispered, sounding reverent.
We handled the logistics of getting out of the car with military precision. Peyton got the bags. Dalton got the baby. Peyton instructed me to “just walk and breathe,” which felt ridiculous but also incredibly sweet.
Walking through the front door felt like crossing a threshold in a fantasy novel. The air inside was cool and smelled of lemon polish and the faint, underlying scent of us.
“Welcome home, peanut,” Dalton cooed, carrying the car seat into the living room and setting it gently on the coffee table.
We gathered around her, the three of us forming a protective circle. The silence of the house settled around us, heavy and peaceful. No nurses coming in to check vitals. No beeping machines. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the soft sound of our breathing.
“She looks small in here,” I whispered, looking around the spacious living room.
“She’ll grow,” Peyton said, coming up behind me and wrapping his arms around my waist, resting his chin on my shoulder. “Too fast.”
Dalton knelt by the carrier, unbuckling the straps with careful fingers. Hope stirred, letting out a little squeak that made all of our heads snap toward her. She yawned, stretching her tiny arms, and blinked her eyes open—dark, unfocused voids that seemed to hold all the secrets of the universe.
“Hey there,” Dalton murmured, tickling her tummy. “You know where you are? You’re home.”
We spent the next hour in a daze of “firsts.” First diaper change at home, Dalton handled it with surprising efficiency, while Peyton hovered with wipes like a surgical assistant.
First feeding in the rocking chair in the nursery, where I sat surrounded by the mural Dalton had painted, the fantasy forest feeling more magical than ever.
By the time the sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long golden shadows across the floor, exhaustion was starting to pull at me.
“Theo,” Peyton’s voice was low, leaving no room for argument. “Bed. Now.”
“But—”
“I’ve got her,” Dalton said, stepping forward. He looked tired too—we all were—but his eyes were bright. “I’m going to hold her for a bit. You guys rest.”
“Dalton—”
“Go,” he smiled, pressing a kiss to my cheek. “Papa’s got this.”
Peyton practically carried me to our bedroom. The king-sized bed looked like a cloud. I barely remember crawling under the blanket before Peyton was there too, pulling me against his solid warmth.
“We did it,” I mumbled into his chest, the scent of him grounding me.
“We did,” Peyton agreed, his hand stroking my back. “Sleep, Theo. We’re safe. We’re home.”
I slept hard, a dreamless black void, until a soft sound woke me.
I blinked into the darkness. The digital clock read 8:43 PM. Peyton had left the bed.
Panic flared hot and bright for a second—Where is she? Where are they?—before I heard it. A low, rumbling murmur coming from the living room.
I padded out of the bedroom, my bare feet silent on the cool tile.
The living room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of a floor lamp in the corner. Dalton was sitting on the sofa, his legs propped up on the coffee table. Hope was asleep on his chest, a tiny starfish of contentment.
Dalton’s hand rested on Hope’s back, gently tracing patterns on it. He looked up as I entered, his smile soft and easy.
And Peyton… Peyton was sitting on the floor next to them, his back resting against the sofa, one arm thrown loosely over Dalton’s legs. He was reading aloud from a book—not a children’s book, but one of the fantasy novels I loved to read.
“…and so the dragon curled around his hoard,” Peyton read, his voice a gravelly rumble that was impossibly gentle. “Knowing that for all his gold and jewels, the true treasure was the peace of the cave.”
“Hey,” Dalton whispered. “Sleeping beauty wakes.”
“Is everything okay?” I asked, moving toward them like a moth to a flame.
“Perfect,” Peyton said, looking up at me. He reached out a hand, and I took it, letting him pull me down to sit on the floor between his legs. I leaned back against his chest, resting my head on his shoulder, looking up at Dalton and our daughter.
“She has gas,” Dalton reported solemnity. “But we negotiated a truce.”
I laughed, a quiet, bubbling sound that felt like relief.
I looked at them. Peyton, my fierce protector, reading bedtime stories. Dalton, my anchor, holding our daughter like she was the most precious art he’d ever created. And Hope, the tiny, breathing evidence of our love.
I wasn’t the lonely geek hiding in a game shop anymore. I wasn’t broken.
I was right here.
“What are you thinking?” Peyton murmured, pressing a kiss to my temple.
I reached up, tracing the line of Dalton’s knee, then reaching back to squeeze Peyton’s hand.
“That I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be,” I whispered.
“In the middle?” Dalton teased, though his eyes were wet.
“Yeah,” I said, closing my eyes and letting the warmth of my family wash over me. “In the middle.”
And for the first time in my life, I knew it was true. This wasn’t just a happy ending. It was a beginning.
Our beginning.