Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
FLETCH
T he house is quiet now. Reese corralled the guys out the door like a tiny general in leggings and a messy bun, Eli strapped to her hip like a prize. The scent of garlic still lingers in the air, cozy and familiar, wrapping around my ribs like a reminder—she’s really here. Mya. Home.
I toe off my shoes by the door, moving on muscle memory. The sound of the wind brushing against the windows is the only thing keeping me grounded. That—and the fact that Mya’s voice is still echoing in my ears.
“I want a shower,” she said, stifling another yawn even as her eyes flicked toward the hallway.
And yeah. I remember what the doctor said. No showering alone for the first few weeks. Not after what her body’s been through. Not when her balance is still shaky and her blood pressure’s bouncing around like a pinball.
Which is how I end up standing in the bathroom doorway, hand braced against the frame, trying not to stare too hard as Mya peels off her hoodie.
“I can do it,” she says without looking at me, voice soft but firm. Determined. Like she’s trying to remind both of us she’s not fragile.
“I know,” I say. And I mean it. But I also mean, let me take care of you. I don’t say it out loud, though. She already knows.
She slides the shirt over her head next, revealing the fading bruise at her side. My breath catches.
She doesn’t miss it. “Still looks worse than it feels.”
I nod, swallowing the knot that’s been lodged in my throat since the hospital. “Still doesn’t mean I like seeing it.”
Her eyes flick up to mine, unreadable. She doesn’t smile. Just turns, reaching for the band of her sweatpants. “You gonna stay while I shower?”
I hesitate. Not because I don’t want to. But because every cell in my body remembers what it used to mean—her naked in front of me. Steam on the walls. My hands on her hips. That look she used to get when I touched her like she was made of stars and secrets.
But this?
This isn’t that.
This is reverence. This is witnessing a miracle that almost didn’t make it. This is standing in a bathroom the same color as the nursery walls she dreamed of, and watching her step under the spray like it might wash away the months she lost.
“Yeah,” I say hoarsely. “I’ll stay.”
She steps into the shower with slow, careful movements, and I take a seat on the closed toilet, eyes trained on the corner tile while the water beats down. Her silhouette shifts behind the glass, blurred and beautiful, and all I can think is—she carried our boys. She almost died doing it. And she’s still here.
I press the heels of my hands to my knees and let myself feel it for a second—the awe, the ache, the absolute fucking gratitude.
I’ve seen her naked a hundred times, in every kind of light. But this?
This is different.
She’s got a body carved by survival and sacrifice. And to me, that’s holy.
The water shuts off with a squeak, and I’m on my feet before she even opens the door, towel already in hand. She steps out, dripping and exhausted, and I wrap it around her like armor.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, leaning into me.
My hands settle at her waist. “For what?”
“For being here,” she whispers. “For not… looking at me like I’m broken.”
I tighten my grip just enough to anchor her. “You’re not broken, Mya. You’re brave. And if you let me, I’ll remind you of that every single day.”
Her chin tips up, eyes shining. “Even on the days I forget?”
“Especially on those.”
She nods, and it’s so small, so quiet, it damn near shatters me. I help her into one of my old t-shirts, thread her arms through like she’s spun glass, and then guide her back to bed where the sheets still hold the warmth from earlier.
She sinks into the pillows with a sigh and lets me tuck her in, fingers curling in the hem of my shirt like it’s a lifeline.
I brush a kiss to her forehead, lingering just a beat too long.
“I’ll be right outside,” I whisper.
“Fletch?”
“Yeah?”
“Stay.”
She says it so quietly, I almost convince myself I imagined it. But then she looks up at me, eyes wide and raw in a way that makes my chest ache, and I know she means it.
Stay.
There’s no world where I say no.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell her softly, brushing the backs of my fingers along her cheek. “Just gonna change.”
She nods, her lip caught between her teeth, and I take the few steps to the guest room—where I’ve been sleeping for three straight months—strip out of my jeans and hoodie, and pull on the softest pair of grey sweats I own and a plain white tee.
When I step back into the bedroom, she’s already curled onto her side, lids heavy, hands tucked beneath her cheek. Still damp from her shower, her hair fans out on the pillow like a dark halo, and the sight of her like this—fragile, exhausted, here—is enough to knock the breath from my lungs.
I hesitate near the doorway, because this? This feels big. Bigger than just two people sharing a bed. This is her asking me to stay in her world. To take up space in the parts of her that were once unreachable.
Still, when I sit on the edge of the bed, I’m careful not to jostle her. She shifts slightly, eyes fluttering open as she looks up at me.
“You sure?” I ask, voice low. “I can crash on the couch if you want space.”
Her fingers find mine beneath the blankets, soft and tentative like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she holds too tight. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
And God, how could I leave after that?
I slip beneath the covers beside her, slow and uncertain. We haven’t done this since before… everything. The coma. The NICU. The waiting.
Now we’re here again, with nothing but a heartbeat of space between us. And suddenly, I’m seventeen and scared again, only this time it’s not fear of messing things up. It’s the knowledge that I almost lost her. That I did lose her, in all the ways that matter.
The silence stretches.
I shift onto my side, mirroring her, our faces inches apart on the pillow. “This okay?” I whisper.
She nods, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks. “Yeah. Just… weird.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, my thumb sweeping over the back of her hand. “Feels like we time-traveled. Only everything’s different now.”
Mya lets out a quiet laugh, breath warm against my skin. “It’s like trying to fit back into a life that doesn’t fit anymore.”
“We’ll build a new one,” I say before I can second-guess it. “If you want.”
Her eyes meet mine, glassy and guarded, and for a second, I think she might pull back.
But instead, she inches closer until her forehead rests against mine, and all the air between us feels like a prayer.
“I want,” she whispers.
It’s two syllables. That’s it. But they carry more weight than any anthem or apology ever could.
She blinks up at me, eyes glassy, like she’s still halfway between the world she woke up to and the one she left behind.
“I just… I need a little time. To get used to everything again.”
My heart clenches around the spaces her words don’t fill. And maybe that’s the most important part—what she doesn’t say. Because I hear it anyway. The ache beneath the breath. The fear threaded into the pause. The quiet question buried between the lines: Will you still be here once I do?
“There’s no rush,” I murmur, brushing my thumb across her cheek. “I’ll wait forever if that’s what it takes.”
And I mean it.
I’d wait through another hundred days in a too-bright hospital room, whispering to silence and praying to gods I stopped believing in. I’d wait through the kind of aching loneliness that gnaws at your ribcage like it wants to wear your bones. I’d wait through anything. Everything. For her.
She exhales, voice thinner now, a ghost of thought wrapped in warmth. “I wish the boys were home.”
I swallow the lump that wedges in my throat. “Me too.”
Her hand curls over my chest, fingers splaying over my heartbeat like she’s trying to catch it mid-thud. “I keep thinking about what it’ll feel like… bringing them here.”
“It’ll happen,” I promise. “As soon as they’re ready, we’ll bring them home.”
Home.
Not just this house with its creaky floorboards and quiet corners. Our home. The one we’ve fought for, bled for, waited for.
I lean in, press a kiss to her temple, and let it linger like a vow. “Until then, they’ve got the best nurses in the world and a dad who’s gonna visit them every single day.”
“And a mom who dreams about them every time she closes her eyes,” she murmurs, barely audible.
I pull the blanket up to her chin, tucking her in like she’s something sacred. Which she is.
“You should sleep,” I say gently. “Doctor’s orders.”
She makes a face. “Bossy.”
“Only when I care.”
She yawns—one of those sleepy, kitten-like yawns that pulls at something primitive in my chest—and blinks up at me again, softer now. Exposed. “You’ll stay?”
“Of course I’ll stay.” I shift beside her, adjusting the pillow behind her back. “For as long as you need.”
Forever, if she lets me.
I reach over and turn off the lamp, bathing us in the hush of twilight and old memories. The silence is full but not empty. Heavy, but not suffocating. It’s the kind of quiet that comes after the storm—when the rain’s stopped falling and the world hasn’t quite figured out what to do with the sun.
She shifts closer, her forehead brushing my shoulder, and I swear I can feel her ribs finally loosen with sleep.
And me?
I just lie there.
Watching the rise and fall of her breathing like it’s the only proof I need that miracles are real.
Because they are.
And she’s mine.
* * *
The NICU smells like hope.
Or maybe that’s just Mya—standing beside me, wrapped in soft cotton and quiet awe, her fingers twitching like her body’s still catching up to the miracle in front of her. The morning light filters through the tall windows, throwing a halo over the incubators that hold everything good and terrifying in the world.
Imani, the NICU matron, greets us with her usual calm grace. She’s a force of nature in scrubs, with a kind smile and the kind of presence that instantly soothes your chest even when you didn’t realize it was tight.
“They’ve had a good night,” she tells us, glancing at her tablet. “Feeding tubes are still in, but they’re tolerating milk well. Oxygen levels are stable. Kingston even pulled off his monitor again.”
I huff out a breath that might be a laugh. “Sounds like someone’s already trying to make a break for it.”
Mya’s lips twitch. She’s pale, still a little shaky on her feet, but when I slide my hand into hers, she leans into me like she belongs there. Like maybe she’s starting to believe she does.
“You ready to hold them again?” Imani asks gently, eyes flicking between us like she already knows the answer.
Mya nods, that breathless kind of nod you give when you’re afraid wanting something too much might make it disappear. “Yes. Please.”
We wash our hands like it’s ritual. Like we’re about to touch something sacred. And maybe we are.
Mya goes first, settling into the recliner while Imani helps her get comfortable. She eases Kingston—tiny, perfect, still fighting—out of the incubator and into Mya’s arms with the kind of reverence usually reserved for relics or rosaries.
And I watch as Mya just… glows.
Not the kind of glow people talk about when they mean a pretty girl in good lighting. I’m talking real light. The kind that comes from inside and softens everything it touches. She looks like hope incarnate. Like she’s holding the missing piece of herself and trying not to unravel.
I strip off my hoodie and shirt when it’s my turn. Mya glances at me, and her eyes snag on my bare chest.
And that look—God.
It’s not like before. Not the charged, skin-humming tension that used to crackle between us in the backseat of my car or the silence of a hotel room. No, this is something else. Her gaze is slower. Fuller. Like she’s seeing me differently now. Like she’s seeing me.
I’m not stupid. I’ve seen her naked. I’ve had her beneath me, above me, wrapped around me like I was the only solid thing in a world gone sideways. But standing here now, bare-chested and holding our son to my heart?
This is something else.
Something permanent.
The nurse places Kody against me, and I swear I stop breathing.
He’s so small. So warm. So real.
His head tucks under my chin and his tiny chest rises and falls against mine like a butterfly’s wings, and I think—this. This is the moment my life splits clean down the middle. Before. After.
Mya’s watching me, and when our eyes meet, something passes between us—thick, golden, electric. Her lips part, like she wants to say something but doesn’t trust the weight of it yet.
And I don’t rush her.
I never will.
Not after everything.
We sit like that for a long time. No words. Just breaths and heartbeats and the faint hum of machines we’ve already learned to love. It’s quiet. Sacred. Heavy with everything we’ve survived and everything still waiting for us on the other side.
When the nurse finally takes Kody and settles him back into his incubator, I stand and move back to Mya’s side.
She reaches for my hand without thinking.
And I take it.
Because I would again and again, in every life.
Her fingers tighten around mine. “They’re so small,” she whispers.
“They won’t be for long.”
She looks at me, eyes wide and wet. “They’re ours.”
“Yeah,” I say, the word thick on my tongue. “They are.”
And somehow, so are we.
The moment the boys are lifted from our chests and nestled back into their glowing little space-pods, my arms feel too empty and too full all at once.
Mya lingers by Kingston’s incubator, fingers brushing along the edge of the glass like she’s afraid this whole moment might evaporate if she blinks too fast.
I step in beside her, close but not crowding, just… there. The way I always want to be now.
Imani approaches with that calm grace that makes her seem less like a nurse and more like the guardian angel of the NICU. She’s got her tablet in one hand, her presence steady and warm. “They did beautifully today,” she says, voice low and sure. “Both boys tolerated skin-to-skin really well. Heart rates stayed steady. Temperature held.”
Mya nods slowly, soaking it in like sunlight after a storm.
“I know you’re both wondering about when they’ll be ready to go home,” Imani continues gently, as if she can read our thoughts before we even speak them. “All going well, we’re looking at ten to thirteen more weeks. The average stay for twenty-seven-weekers is up to their due date—so somewhere around thirty-seven to forty weeks, corrected.”
That hits like a silent clock ticking somewhere deep in my chest. Ten weeks. Ten more weeks of plastic cribs and monitors and daily check-ins before we can bring them home.
I squeeze Mya’s hand gently, anchoring her. Us.
“There are a few big milestones we’re watching for,” Imani says, flipping to another screen. “First, they’ll need to breathe completely on their own—no oxygen, no apnea episodes. Second, they have to regulate their body temperature outside the incubator. Third, oral feeding—no more feeding tubes, and steady weight gain. And finally, no major health issues or complications.”
Mya glances at the tubes still taped gently to Kingston’s cheek. Her expression shifts—love sharpened by worry.
I ask the question hanging between us. “How are they doing so far?”
“They’re progressing well,” Imani says with a reassuring smile. “We’re still taking things day by day, but so far—no red flags. Their lungs are still developing, but that’s normal. They’re tolerating feeds, and both boys have strong reflexes. We’ll keep monitoring closely. Every quiet day is a good day.”
There’s a tightness in my throat I can’t quite swallow.
Kody shifts slightly in his incubator, and my heart does that ridiculous thing where it somersaults against my ribs like it’s trying to reach him.
“They’ll tell us when they’re ready,” Imani adds, then steps back to give us a moment.
Mya’s gaze doesn’t leave the boys. She leans into me, like she’s borrowing strength without having to ask, and I wrap my arm around her waist, tucking her in against my side.
“We’ll bring them home,” I say quietly, my lips brushing her temple. “When they’re ready, we’ll be here. And they’ll come home to us.”
She looks up at me, eyes a little shinier than before. But there’s something solid in her now too—like hope is finally starting to take root again.
She nods. Just once.
And when her hand presses gently against the incubator, it’s not shaking this time.
It’s steady. Certain.
So are we.