Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
FLETCH
W e walk back to the cottage in silence, our steps slow, like the weight of the day has soaked into our skin and made everything heavier.
Mya’s tucked into her coat, arms wrapped around her midsection like she’s cradling the ache she won’t say out loud. The gravel crunches beneath our boots, the cold air sharp enough to slice through the quiet, but neither of us breaks it. Not yet.
The lights from the main house fade behind us as we round the oak tree that splits the path—our little fork in the road. The cottage is warm and glowing when we reach it, the porch light buzzing like it’s trying to hum a lullaby.
I open the door for her, letting her walk in first. She doesn’t say anything, just shrugs off her coat and toes off her boots, like she’s done it a thousand times. Like she’s still trying to remember how to make this feel like home.
I linger near the doorway, watching her. She’s slower tonight. Fragile in a way she’s trying to hide, but I know her tells—the way her hand presses a little firmer over her stomach, the way her jaw tightens when she thinks no one’s looking. The way she’s not meeting my eyes.
“I’ll let you get ready for bed,” I murmur, already backing toward the hallway that leads to the guest room.
She nods without looking up, then disappears into her bedroom, and the soft click of the door behind her echoes louder than it should.
I try to sleep. I try like hell. But the bed’s too cold, and the silence is too loud, and I keep replaying her face from earlier—the quiet wonder in her eyes when she held those tiny onesies her dad gave her. The tears that followed. The laugh through the tears. God, that laugh wrecked me.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Mya: You awake?
I answer before I can think better of it.
Me: Yeah. Can’t sleep?
Mya: No.
There’s a pause. Then another message lights up the screen.
Mya: Will you come here?
I’m already moving before the words finish sinking in.
I don’t knock. I just open the door and step inside, quiet, like I’m afraid the moment might shatter if I breathe too loud. She’s curled on her side, eyes open, waiting.
I cross the room and sit on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under my weight. For a beat, neither of us speaks.
Then, softly, “I couldn’t stop thinking about the boys.”
“Me either,” I admit.
She turns her head toward me, her hair fanned out across the pillow, her eyes so dark they look like midnight. “We haven’t given them a last name yet.”
I nod slowly. “I didn’t want to assume. If you wanted them to have yours…”
Her lips part, but no sound comes out. She just looks at me, something unreadable swimming in her expression.
Then—quiet, certain—she whispers, “They should be Malone.”
My heart trips.
“Because they’re your sons,” she adds, her voice cracking right down the middle.
I don’t say anything for a second. I can’t. There’s a lump in my throat the size of Texas and it’s not going anywhere.
Instead, I reach for her hand, fingers brushing over hers like a promise.
She doesn’t pull away.
And for the first time in weeks, the silence between us doesn’t feel like an ending.
She shifts closer, her hand still caught in mine, her eyes still on me like she’s trying to memorize the shape of this moment. I’m not sure either of us is breathing. I don’t even know if we have to—this right here feels like oxygen.
“Say it again,” I whisper, not even sure why I need to hear it.
Her lashes flicker. “They’re your sons, Fletch.”
God.
Everything I’ve been holding in—the fear, the guilt, the ache—fractures in my chest. I press her knuckles to my mouth and close my eyes. The room smells like her—vanilla and something warm and familiar—and I know right now, this is as close to peace as I’ve come in months.
I lie down beside her, careful not to crowd, just close enough that I can feel the heat of her under the covers.
“Are you okay?” she asks softly, like maybe I’m the one breaking this time.
I shake my head a little. “No. But I’m closer than I was an hour ago.”
She turns toward me, our faces a breath apart now. Her hand slips from mine and lands on my chest, her fingers splayed over my heart like she’s testing to make sure it’s still beating.
It is.
Loudly.
For her.
“They’re gonna be okay,” she says into the quiet, her voice like a threadbare lullaby. “I know they will be.”
“I believe you.”
She exhales, then tucks herself into the curve of my body like she’s done it a hundred times, like we haven’t been stumbling our way through the wreckage of what we used to be.
I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her close, her back pressed to my front, my face tucked into the space between her neck and shoulder. Her skin is soft and sleep-warm, and the sound she makes when I hold her tighter is the kind of sound that lodges in your soul and refuses to leave.
Neither of us says another word.
Because we don’t have to.
She’s here. I’m here.
And for the first time since everything fell apart…we’re not alone in the dark.
* * *
When I wake up, it takes me a second to remember where I am.
Then I feel her.
Mya’s still curled into me, her legs tangled with mine, her hair a dark halo on the pillow we’re sharing. She’s warm and soft and breathing steady, like the storm that’s been living under her skin finally settled for the night.
I stay still.
Not just because I don’t want to wake her, but because I need this. A moment where everything’s simple. Her body against mine. Her hand still resting over my heart like it belongs there.
Outside the window, the sun is trying to sneak in through the slats in the blinds, turning the room pale gold. The world feels hushed. Suspended.
Then she shifts, her lashes fluttering against my collarbone. A breath later, her voice comes out, sleep-rough and small.
“You stayed.”
I brush her hair back from her face. “You asked me to.”
She hums, low and content. “I didn’t think I’d sleep. But I did.”
“Yeah. You passed out with your hand on my ribs. I didn’t dare move.”
Her lips quirk. “I guess you were my emotional support space heater.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
We stay like that for a while, not rushing it. There’s something about the quiet that feels…earned. Like after everything we’ve been through, we deserve this little slice of peace.
But eventually, she sighs and shifts to sit up. “We should go.”
“To the hospital?”
She nods, rubbing her hand over her face. “I want to see the boys.”
So do I.
The NICU feels softer this morning.
Maybe it’s the sunlight spilling through the blinds, streaking gold across the pale walls. Or maybe it’s the way the nurses are smiling a little wider. Brighter. Hope is a fragile thing in this place—but today, it’s here.
We scrub in, like always. Mya’s hands tremble a little when she ties her gown, and I step in without thinking, looping the strings behind her neck. She glances up at me and I swear—I can feel the thanks in her silence.
Inside, we find them sleeping.
Kody stirs first, his tiny mouth twitching around the pacifier. Kingston is curled like a comma, his chest rising and falling with perfect rhythm. Monitors beep in slow, steady sync, not the rapid-fire alarms that used to spike my anxiety into the stratosphere.
Imani meets us at the incubators. She’s got that calm, no-nonsense look that means she’s about to drop news like it’s gospel.
“They’re doing well,” she says, her voice a little lighter than usual. “Stable breathing, good weight gain. They’re holding their own without oxygen support and have been bottle feeding like champs.”
Mya’s hand flies to her chest. “Wait—are you saying?—”
“They’re hitting the milestones we like to see before discharge,” Imani says with a soft smile. “If this trajectory holds, we could be talking about a release date within the next few weeks.”
Mya lets out a sound that’s half gasp, half sob.
And I?—
I don’t even try to stop it.
I pull her into me, both of us standing there, arms wrapped tight, faces buried in each other’s shoulders while the boys sleep peacefully behind the glass.
“Few more weeks,” I whisper into her hair.
She nods against me. “We can do that.”
God, we’ve already done more than we thought we could.
And now?
Now we’ve got something we haven’t had in a long damn time.
Hope.
* * *
Reese barrels out of the main house like it’s Christmas morning and she just spotted Santa on the porch. Her curls bounce with every step, cheeks flushed with excitement, eyes already glittering with a secret she can’t wait to spill.
“Okay, okay, don’t freak out,” she says before either of us can even open our mouths.
Mya blinks, caught mid-sentence as she was about to ask if we had time to check on the horses before lunch.
Reese claps her hands together and spins on her heel like she’s hosting a game show. “Thorin’s mom and my dad are officially on babysitting duty for the day, which means—” she points at Mya with a grin so wide it looks borderline unhinged, “—you and I are going to Dallas for a spa day. Merry almost-New-Year.”
Mya’s mouth drops open. “Wait. What?”
“You heard me.” Reese wiggles her brows. “Hot stone massage. Full facial. Mani-pedi. Lunch somewhere that doesn’t smell like hay and man sweat. I booked everything. We leave in ten.”
Mya doesn’t say anything right away. Just stares at her like she’s processing if this is a trap. Like maybe there’s a camera crew hiding behind a bale of hay.
So I lean in, brushing a kiss across her cheek, letting my hand linger at the curve of her hip. “Go,” I murmur. “You deserve a day off. I’ll be at the studio anyway—we’re trying to finish the last two tracks before the end of the week.”
She turns to me slowly, her lips quirking in that almost-smile that guts me every time. “You sure?”
I nod. “I’ll feel better knowing you’re letting someone pamper you for once.”
Reese snorts. “Thank you. Someone gets it.”
She hooks her arm through Mya’s before Mya can change her mind, pulling her toward the house with zero chill. “Go get changed. Something fluffy. Something feminine. Something that screams I’m a mom who hasn’t had a pedicure in months.”
Mya shoots me a look over her shoulder—one part amused, one part helpless—and I just grin.
“Have fun,” I call after them, already reaching for my keys. “And be safe.”
“Don’t text her,” Reese yells without looking back. “Let her have her moment!”
I lift both hands in mock surrender as the front door slams behind them, then turn toward the truck.
The studio’s calling.
But damn if watching her disappear into that house doesn’t make me wish I was going wherever she’s going instead.
The studio is half-lit and humming with static. The air smells like old soundproofing foam, reheated burritos, and the kind of ambition that frays your nerves if you sit in it too long.
Carson’s already at the board, one AirPod in, head bobbing as he isolates a drum loop. He doesn’t look up when I walk in, just slides a bottle of water toward the edge of the console like he’s been waiting for me.
“You’re late.”
“I brought caffeine,” I say, holding up two iced coffees like some kind of peace treaty.
Benji pops his head out of the vocal booth like a groundhog on a mission. “Praise be,” he mutters, snatching one. “I’ve been mainlining sadness and stale air for the last hour.”
“You’re welcome.”
He flops into the nearest chair with all the grace of a dying starfish. “You missed Carson’s existential spiral about the second verse.”
“I did not spiral,” Carson says without looking up. “I said it needs a sharper edge. It sounds like a love song.”
Benji slurps his coffee obnoxiously. “And God forbid we write something that doesn’t sound like a cry for help.”
Carson sighs. “It’s not supposed to be sweet. It’s about starting over. Not… basking in it.”
I drop my bag by the amp stack and run a hand through my hair. “So you want it to ache.”
Carson meets my gaze then. “Yeah. I want it to ache.”
I nod. “All right. Let’s bleed.”
We set up like muscle memory—Benji tuning his guitar, Carson at the keys, me sliding the headphones on and stepping up to the mic like I haven’t done it a thousand times. Like this time means something different.
Because it does.
We’re almost done with this album. The first one I’ve written anything for. The first one since Eli lost his parents. Since Thorin’s world cracked open. Since I watched Mya break and fight her way back with nothing but stubbornness and those twin boys holding her heart hostage.
This whole record has grief in its bones. But it’s got hope too. Quiet, messy, reluctant hope.
Carson hits record. The track starts slow—just heartbeat percussion and Benji’s voice cutting through the static like thunder rolling in from the distance. Then it’s my turn.
I close my eyes.
I don’t think about stage lights or screaming fans. Not tonight. Not like last time. Not like that night.
Madison Square Garden.
The night everything stopped.
We’d just come off stage. Still riding the high. Then Thorin’s phone rang.
And nothing was the same again.
I think about that moment. The silence. The shock. The way his legs gave out and none of us knew how to catch him.
I think about what came after—Eli’s tiny body wrapped in a hospital blanket. Thorin’s shell of a voice asking who would take him.
And Mya.
How she’s woven into this record now, like a thread we didn’t know we were missing. How she walks into rooms with that haunted kind of grace and makes all our noise feel like something holy.
The music swells, and I open my mouth.
Let it wreck me.
Let it ache.
When the track fades, the silence that follows is thick. Heavy. Holy.
Carson turns around slowly. “That’s it.”
Benji lets out a long, low whistle. “I felt that in my fucking teeth.”
I drop my head, chest still tight, lungs full of ghosts. “Yeah,” I rasp. “Me too.”
Carson saves the take, fingers shaking just slightly.
“Two more tracks,” he says. “We’re almost there.”