24. Epilogue
Three months later…
"You are never, ever touching me again, you fucking asshole!"
Clover's grip on my hand tightens like a goddamn vise as another contraction hits her. Her face contorts, a sheen of sweat covering her forehead as she bears down, then collapses back against the hospital bed, panting.
"You're doing amazing, baby," I tell her, brushing damp strands of hair off her face. "You're the strongest person I've ever met."
"Don't sweet-talk me right now," she growls, but she refuses to let go of my hand. "This is your fault. You and your stupid dick. I hate you so much."
Reed coughs as he tries to hide his laugh, and I flip him off with my other hand.
I bite back my own grin because laughing right now would probably get me murdered. "I know, Freckles. You can hate me all you want as long as you keep pushing."
It's been eighteen hours since Clover's water broke in the middle of the night, and I got the call at the station that it was time. Eighteen hours of watching the woman I love fight through pain I can't even imagine. Eighteen hours of feeling completely fucking helpless and doing my best to be her rock at the same time.
At least Reed’s here. Crazy how far we’ve come from me wanting to punch him at that first ultrasound. Now he’s the guy who shows up with weird basketball stats and embarrasses himself after a few beers—but there’s nobody I trust more with Clover and our baby.
Reed moves between Clover’s legs, professional mode fully engaged. It’s almost comforting how he morphs from our awkward friend to the confident doctor the second he steps into his role.
“You’re at ten centimeters, Clover,” he tells her with an encouraging nod. “Time to push with the next contraction. You ready to meet this baby?”
Clover nods, her grip on my hand tightening even more.
A flash of panic crosses her face as she looks up at me. For all her bravado, all her insistence that she can handle anything, I've never seen her look so scared.
"I've got you," I whisper, pressing my lips to her temple. “I’m not going anywhere."
Three months ago, we stood in front of our friends and family as Clover became my wife in a small ceremony in our backyard. She was seven months pregnant, glowing in a simple white dress that showed off her belly, and I thought nothing could ever make me feel more complete than that moment.
I was wrong.
Because now, as Clover grits her teeth and bears down with another contraction, cursing my existence with every curse word in her arsenal, I'm watching her bring our son into the world. And holy shit, there's nothing more badass than that.
"I can see the head," Reed says. "One more big push, Clover."
"You said that three pushes ago!" she snaps, but then another contraction hits, and she crushes my hand with a force I didn’t know was humanly possible.
“That’s it,” I tell her, trying to keep my voice steady. “Almost there, baby. You’ve got this.”
A primal sound tears from her throat—half-scream, half-grunt—and then suddenly there's a new sound in the room. A tiny, angry cry that stops my heart mid-beat.
"It's a boy!" Reed announces with genuine excitement breaking through his usual doctor cool. He lifts our son up so we can see him, a tiny, red-faced, screaming miracle covered in God-knows-what and absolutely perfect.
My vision blurs, the world going watery as the ground shifts under my feet. I've run into burning buildings, felt the floor give way beneath me, seen death up close—but nothing—nothing—has ever rocked me like this. This tiny human Clover and I made, half her, half me, and somehow already his own person.
“He’s here,” I manage, voice wrecked. My hand shakes as I reach toward him but pull back, suddenly terrified of how breakable he looks. "Look what you did, Freckles. Look what we made."
"He's perfect," Clover whispers beside me, her voice raw with emotion and exhaustion. "Banks, look at him."
As if I could look anywhere else.
The tears I've been fighting spill over, streaming unchecked down my face. I don't bother wiping them away—can't even find the coordination to try. Every wall I've ever built crumbles at the sound of my son's cries.
"I know," I whisper, bending to press my forehead against Clover's, my tears mingling with hers. "You're incredible. I don't—I can't even—" My words fail completely, a sob breaking free from somewhere deep in my chest.
She reaches up with a shaking hand to touch my face, her eyes bright with tears and exhaustion but filled with a love so fierce it's almost blinding. "We did it," she whispers. "He's really here."
"I love you so much," I tell her, though it doesn’t come close to what I’m feeling. "I always thought I was brave because I fight fires, but you—what you just did—that's real courage."
Reed personally brings our son over instead of having a nurse do it, carefully placing him in Clover's arms with a gentleness that reminds me why we trusted him with this in the first place. The awkward guy who once rattled off statistics at our engagement party is the same one who's now sharing one of the most important moments of our lives.
“He scores a nine on the Apgar,” Reed says quietly, clearly proud. "It’s an excellent score."
Clover looks down at Noble with such wonder that my chest physically aches. Then she looks up at me, tears tracking down her flushed cheeks.
"Want to hold your son?" she asks.
My hands tremble as I reach for him. I’ve held babies before—but never my own. Nothing prepares me for the feeling of holding my own child for the first time. The second his tiny body settles into the crook of my arm, the entire universe tilts. His face scrunches up as he squints against the bright lights of the delivery room.
"Hey, little man," I whisper, my voice breaking. "I'm your dad."
His eyes crack open at the sound of my voice, and even though I know newborns can't see clearly, it feels like he's looking right at me. This tiny person knows he's mine and I'm his.
"Noble Jensen Priestly," I say, testing his name out loud for the first time. It fits him—strong but not overbearing. A name he can grow into.
"I think he looks like you," Clover says, reaching out to touch his tiny hand. "Poor kid."
I let out a laugh, still unable to tear my gaze from him. “Nah, that chin’s all you. And that little nose.”
“Well those are definitely your ears. Plus, he’s got the same hair color as you do."
We're both crying and grinning and staring at this miracle we created during a thunderstorm almost a year ago. I lean down to kiss Clover’s damp forehead.
“I love you,” I say, voice thick. “So goddamn much.”
"I love you too," she whispers against my mouth. "Even if I did threaten to castrate you."
"Worth it," I say, glancing down at Noble. "Every threat, every broken bone in my hand, all of it. Worth it for him."
A week later, I’m pacing our new nursery at three in the morning, Noble tucked against my chest while I try to lull him back to sleep. Clover’s finally crashed in our bed after taking the brunt of night feedings the day before, so I’m determined to give her a break.
“You gotta cut your mom some slack, bud,” I murmur, moving in slow circles as he squirms against me. “She’s tough, but she needs sleep too.”
He makes a small snuffling sound but doesn't start screaming, his tiny body warm against mine. I still can't get over how perfect he is—ten fingers, ten toes, a little tuft of dark hair, and a set of lungs that lets the whole neighborhood know when he's hungry.
"Your mom is the strongest person I've ever met," I continue, keeping my voice low. "Smartest, too. And the most stubborn. Which means you and I are going to have our hands full.” I brush my finger gently over his cheek. "But that's okay. We're going to protect her heart anyway. She spends so much time taking care of everyone else, but you and me? We're going to make sure she knows she's loved. Every single day."
Maybe it’s the rumble of my voice or the slow swaying, but Noble settles, his tiny breath evening out. For a minute, I stand there in the glow of the nightlight, memorizing the weight of him in my arms, the smell of his head, soaking in the sensation of holding my son.
A floorboard creaks, and I glance up to see Clover standing in the doorway, watching us. She's wearing one of my old PFD t-shirts and those tiny sleep shorts that still always do me in, her hair piled on top of her head in that messy bun. Even with shadows under her eyes and spit-up on her shoulder, she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
"Hey," I whisper. "Did we wake you?"
She shakes her head, moving into the nursery. "No. The empty bed did." She comes to stand beside us, reaching out to brush her fingers over Noble's back. "How long has he been out?"
"About twenty minutes. I thought I'd give him a little more time before putting him down to be sure he was fully under."
She smiles at me, and it hits me all over again—how fucking lucky I am that this incredible woman chose me. Chose this life with me.
"Let me take him," she says. "You've been on your feet since your shift ended, and you have to be back at the station in six hours."
I want to argue, to tell her I'm fine, that she needs rest more than I do. But I'm learning that sometimes the best way to take care of Clover is to let her take care of me.
"Thanks, Freckles," I say, handing him over. She takes our son like she’s done this forever, and it still amazes me, considering we've only been doing this for a week.
"Go get some sleep," she says, settling into the rocking chair in the corner of the nursery. "I've got him."
I lean down to press a kiss to the top of her head, then Noble's. "Wake me if you need anything. Promise?"
"Promise," she says with a small smile. " By the way, there’s some stuff on the kitchen table I want you to look at tomorrow. Bar logo ideas. They’re super rough, but I think I’m onto something.”
“Can’t wait.” I tell her, already looking forward to it. She’s been dreaming of running her own bar for years, and I’m lucky enough to be part of that plan now.
Downstairs, my curiosity gets the best of me. The kitchen table’s covered in sketches and scribbles and I grin at how messy it is. I pick up one of the drawings—an outline of a bar logo with the name “Priestly’s” woven into the design. My throat tightens as I trace my finger over my last name— our last name—incorporated into her dream.
I'm still looking at the designs when I hear Clover's footsteps on the stairs. She pauses in the doorway, our son no longer in her arms.
"He's out," she says, moving to join me at the table. "Hopefully for more than forty-five minutes this time."
I hold up the sketch. "You're naming the bar after us?"
She nods, leaning into me as my arm automatically wraps around her waist. "It seemed right." She repeats my own words back to me from the day I put the mobile up in our son’s room.
"Starting your empire, Freckles?" I murmur against her hair, inhaling the citrus scent of her shampoo mixed with the baby smell that seems to cling to both of us these days.
“Somebody has to plan for the future in this relationship,” she teases, but there's a softness to her voice that wasn't there before all of this started. Something just for me. "You like it?"
"I do," I tell her, and I mean it.
She turns in my arms, her hands sliding up my chest as she looks up at me. Even though we’re both running on no sleep and covered in baby spit, she’s never looked happier.
A small noise comes from the baby monitor on the counter. We both freeze, holding our breath until it's clear he's not waking up.
Clover laughs under her breath. “We’re gonna do that for at least the next eighteen years, aren’t we?”
“At minimum, since he’s the oldest.” She protests a little at that as I tug her closer, resting my chin on the top of her head. “We’re in this for the long haul, Freckles.”
“I’m gonna need a solid eight hours of sleep before we even start to think about another one.” She rises on her tiptoes, her lips brushing mine in a gentle kiss that still packs the power to set my blood on fire. One hand skims my jaw, the other slipping around my waist as I cup her face, taking in the warmth of her skin.
When we break apart, her eyes meet mine, that electric blue crackling with the same spark that got me hooked in the first place. It hasn't faded. Not with time, not with pregnancy, not with sleepless nights and dirty diapers and the million little challenges that come with building a life together.
It's in that moment, standing in our kitchen with my wife in my arms and our son sleeping upstairs, that I realize what I've been fighting fires for all these years. Not just to save others, but to deserve to come home to this. To them. To the family I never thought I'd have, the love I never saw coming and now can’t live without.
I press my wife back against the kitchen counter, claiming her mouth in a kiss that promises we're just getting started. Ever after suddenly feels too short for everything I want with this woman.
She smiles into the kiss. “I love you, Banks Priestly,” she whispers.
“I love you too, Clover Priestly,” I reply, voice rough. “For fucking ever.”
Her smile—that one that's just for me—lights up my entire world. "For fucking ever," she agrees.
And in that moment, even after thirty-six sleepless hours, even with the hardest job in the world waiting for us upstairs, I know with absolute certainty that I'm exactly where I'm meant to be. That everything in my life—every fire, every risk, every twist and turn—was leading me here.
Home.