Epilogue - Holt
9 Months Later
Ivy stumbles a little over a root, and I tighten my grip on her hand before she can faceplant into the dirt.
“Easy, baby,” I murmur, guiding her carefully. “I like your face too much to let you go scuffin' it up now.”
“Wow, thanks. You saying you won’t love me anymore if I’m ugly?”
“Of course not. But we can always put a bag over your head if we need to.”
She huffs, her lips curling in that little almost-smirk she gets when she’s trying not to be charmed. “Maybe I wouldn’t be scuffing it up if you’d just let me take this thing off,” she grumbles, reaching for the blindfold.
I swat her hand away. “Patience.”
“I have none,” she deadpans.
“Oh, we know.”
Behind us, Wyatt chuckles, the sound a little strained—probably because he’s got two tiny humans strapped to his chest. They’re both miraculously quiet, but I don’t trust that will last long. Our daughters are just as stubborn as their mama.
The sun is starting to dip lower, slanting golden light through the trees as we walk. The scent of pine and damp earth fills the air, mixing with the distant hint of woodsmoke from the cabin.
It’s been nine months since Hank first showed Ivy this land. We’ve spent damn near every waking moment building. And now, finally, after months of weather delays, sleepless nights, and the absolute chaos of newborns— twin newborns, we’re here.
It’s done.
And our girl’s about to get her first look at it.
My stomach twists a little, a strange mix of excitement and nerves. I want her to love it. Need her to love it.
We’re going to build a life here, a family, together. It’s not just a house. This is going to be our home .
I slow our pace as we reach the clearing, my heart picking up a little as I catch sight of the house. The last time Ivy was here, it was just a skeleton—wood and nails and a vision only Hank could really see. He insisted she not see it again until it was finished. He wanted the end result to be a surprise.
Two stories of solid, handcrafted beauty, sitting on this perfect slice of mountain land.
Hank added a few things as he went along. There’s a big wraparound porch where we’ll drink our morning coffee. Huge floor-to-ceiling windows facing the view where we’ll be able to catch the sunrise. A fireplace big enough to roast a whole damn deer, which Hank swears we won’t actually do, but I make no promises. But, most importantly, there’s enough space for all of us—and room to grow.
Ivy is gonna lose her damn mind.
I glance over at Wyatt, who shifts one of the babies higher on his chest, adjusting the wrap with a practiced ease that still kind of surprises me. When the twins were first born, none of us had a damn clue what we were doing. Now? We’re a well-oiled machine. Most days.
He’s rocking slightly, probably trying to keep the babies sleeping. Our girls.
And, no, they did not get some Hollywood hippie names. No Apples or Kales or Moonbeams here. Just Emma and Juniper. Classic, solid names for two tiny little troublemakers who’ve turned our world upside down.
Emma—the oldest by a whole two minutes—came out screaming. She’s got a set of lungs on her that rivals the loudest siren, and she knows exactly how to use them. If she’s not happy, everyone’s gonna know about it. Strong-willed as hell, just like her mama.
And then there’s Juniper, our quiet little observer. Where Emma fights sleep like it’s her sworn enemy, Juni just watches the world with big, round eyes, always taking everything in. She hardly ever cries, but when she does, it’s this soft little wail that somehow makes me feel like the worst kind of bastard for not fixing whatever’s wrong immediately.
They’ve wrecked us. Completely, utterly wrecked us in the best way possible.
I never thought I’d be the kind of guy who’d get all soft over a couple of squishy, milk-drunk babies, but here I am.
Dead on my feet most days, covered in spit-up half the time, and wrapped so tight around their tiny fingers it ain’t even funny. We all are. Even Hank, the man who once swore he wasn’t cut out for family life, now spends half his time walking around with one of the girls tucked against his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Wyatt, though—Wyatt was born for this shit. He slid into the role of dad like a champ. No hesitation, no second-guessing. Just pure, unshakable devotion. He’s the one who gets up first in the middle of the night, who knows exactly how to swaddle them so they don’t escape like tiny Houdinis, who sings to them when nothing else will work. It’s annoying, honestly. He makes the rest of us look bad.
And Ivy—God our girl is a natural, too. Not that she’d admit it. She still second-guesses herself, still worries she’s screwing things up somehow. But she’s not. She’s fierce and protective and patient in a way I never expected. Even on the nights when none of us gets any sleep, when Emma’s wailing and Juni won’t settle. The exhaustion might be bone-deep, but she still looks at them like they’re the best thing that’s ever happened to her.
They are. They’re the best thing that’s ever happened to all of us.
Hank is already ahead of us, waiting by the steps with his arms crossed. Typical. He’s the same as always—broad, broody, built like he could knock down a tree with his bare hands. But there’s something else in his stance now. A quiet pride. A softness he only ever really shows around Ivy and the girls.
He put everything into this house for her. Ivy forgave him a long time ago, but he still acts like he has something to prove sometimes.
This house isn’t just Hank’s project, though. It’s belongs to all of us. It’s the place where we’ll watch our kids take their first steps, where we’ll fight and laugh and make up. Where we’ll wake up every morning knowing we chose this life—together.
I press a kiss to Ivy’s neck as I guide her forward, my hands firm on her hips. She’s practically vibrating with anticipation, shifting on her feet like she might combust if we don’t get this blindfold off soon. Pretty sure if we don’t hurry this along, she’s gonna rip it off herself and call it a day.
“Easy, baby,” I murmur, nipping at the shell of her ear. “You’re about to break a record for most impatient human alive.”
“I can’t help it,” she huffs, shifting against me. “You’re all acting like you just led me to a freaking time machine or the entrance to Narnia.”
Wyatt chuckles behind us. “Trust me, sweetheart. It’s better than Narnia.”
She huffs. “I want to see our house. Now. Please.”
Hank grunts from the steps, the closest thing to agreement we’re gonna get from him.
She’s gonna love it. She has to love it.
I exhale slowly, my own nerves creeping in.
I clear my throat. “All right, darlin’. Moment of truth.”
I untie the blindfold and let it fall.
For a second, she doesn’t move. She just stands there, frozen, her hands still raised like she’s expecting the blindfold to be in place. Then, slowly, her fingers curl into fists, and she blinks.
And blinks again.
“Oh my God.” Her voice is barely above a whisper.
Wyatt nudges her shoulder. “Say something, Mountain Girl.”
She does. Kind of. It’s mostly just a strangled noise, like her brain is short-circuiting.
Then the tears come.
She’s full-on sobbing, her hands flying up to cover her face like she can’t quite process what she’s seeing. “You guys,” she chokes out. “I can’t—this is?—”
Well. That’s either really good or really bad.
I glance at Hank, whose arms have fallen to his sides. His eyes are locked on her, his whole body still, like he’s afraid to move in case it changes something.
Wyatt just laughs and tugs Ivy into his arms, holding her against his side so he doesn’t disturb the twins. “Think she likes it,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
“Like it?” Ivy sniffs, pulling back to glare at him through her tears. “I love it. I—” She swipes at her cheeks, laughing a little at herself. “I knew it was going to be amazing, but this is—so much more than I ever hoped for.”
Hank finally speaks, voice rough. “You mean that?”
She turns to him, face crumpling. “Of course I do.”
And that’s all it takes. Hank pulls her in, kissing her slow and deep, one big hand cradling the back of her head. Wyatt and I exchange a glance, then do the only logical thing. We pile on, wrapping around them until it’s just a big, messy tangle of arms and lips and breathless, overwhelmed laughter.
Emma and Juniper, apparently deciding they’ve been ignored long enough, pick that exact moment to let out identical, ear-piercing wails.
Ivy startles. “Oh! Babies! Right.”
Wyatt grins, expertly maneuvering one of them out of the wrap. “Here, mama. You take Juni.”
Ivy takes our daughter, cuddling the tiny, squirming body against her as she sways instinctively. “Shh, beautiful girl. It’s okay.”
Juni settles almost immediately, little fists curling into Ivy’s sweater, and my heart does that dumb, swoopy thing it’s been doing since the moment I first laid eyes on my girls.
Hank clears his throat, shoving his hands in his pockets. “C’mon. Let’s go inside.”
Ivy nods, still wiping at her cheeks. “Yeah. Let’s go home.”
Hank doesn’t need to be told twice. He strides up the steps, unlocking the front door and pushing it open for her. We let Ivy go first, shuffling in behind her. The second she steps over the threshold, she gasps.
“Oh my God.”
The main living area is flooded with soft golden light, the massive floor-to-ceiling windows making the whole space feel open and warm. The fireplace truly is massive—and baby-proofed, of course.
The kitchen, visible from where we stand, is decked out in warm wood and stainless steel, with a massive island that I already know will be covered in pancake batter and toddler snacks in no time.
Ivy’s eyes go wide as she takes it all in, spinning slowly in place. “This is insane.”
Hank shrugs, casual as ever. “It’s home.”
She lets out a breathless laugh. “It really is.”
We take our time showing her everything. The wraparound porch with its amazing views. The mudroom, complete with a bench built just for wrestling tiny boots onto tiny feet. The nursery, already prepped for the chaos that two babies bring.
The master bedroom is the last stop.
Ivy steps inside, still cradling Juniper, and just stares. The vaulted ceiling, the big bed already made up with soft linens, the French doors leading to a private balcony overlooking the mountains.
She turns slowly, her eyes finding each of us in turn, something unreadable flickering in their depths.
Then, she smiles. A secret, knowing little thing.
“What?” I ask, narrowing my eyes. “You’ve got a look.”
“I do not.”
“You do,” Wyatt says at the same time.
She bites her lip, shifting Juniper higher on her hip. “Okay, fine. Maybe I do.”
Hank crosses his arms. “Spit it out, baby.”
She takes a breath, her gaze bouncing between the three of us, her lips twitching like she can’t quite contain her excitement.
Then she drops the bomb.
“I have a surprise, too.” She pauses, letting it linger before hitting us with the full force of it. “We need to prep another room.”
Hank’s brows pull together. “You don’t like?—”
“I love it.” She cuts him off with a quick shake of her head, eyes shining. “But…I’m pregnant.”
Silence.
Pure, stunned, brain-malfunctioning silence.
Then, Wyatt practically shouts, “Again?”
Ivy winces, but she’s grinning. “Yes, again.”
Hank makes a choked-off sound, looking like he might have to sit down. I just stare at her, trying to make my mouth form words, but my brain is too busy short-circuiting.
“Just one this time,” she adds quickly. “I promise.”
For a second, none of us move. Then Wyatt laughs, loud and full of joy and we’re all hugging again. I wrap myself around her and the baby she’s holding and the one she’s carrying, and I can’t imagine being any happier.