Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
FLETCH
I t’s barely sunrise when I wake to the sound of Mya humming in the kitchen. Something soft and syrupy and so damn content it makes my chest ache. I pull a sweatshirt over my head and pad barefoot down the hallway, finding her standing by the counter in that oversized gray sweater she stole from me two weeks ago. Hair piled on top of her head, cheeks flushed with excitement, eyes bright like it’s Christmas morning all over again.
And in a way, it is.
“You ready?” I ask, voice still rough with sleep, but grinning anyway.
Mya spins toward me like she’s been waiting for those words. “Ready?” She lets out a breathless laugh. “Fletch, I’ve been ready since the second they told us they could come home.”
She waves me over to where two brand-new car seats sit on the floor, side by side like little thrones. They’re packed to the brim with tiny winter jackets, soft fleece blankets, matching pacifiers, and enough baby gear to survive an arctic expedition.
“They’ve got hats. Booties. Mittens. Organic swaddles. That weird little stuffed llama your mom sent. And this—” she pulls out a onesie that reads NICU Graduate in bold gold lettering, “—because obviously they had to have something special for their homecoming.”
I chuckle, sweeping a hand through my hair, heart thudding like a drumline. “You thought of everything.”
She shrugs, but there’s a watery smile tugging at her lips. “They’re my boys, Fletch. I’d give them the world if I could.”
God, she says it like it’s nothing. Like she hasn’t just punched me in the throat with every dream I didn’t know I had. I cross the kitchen and wrap my arms around her from behind, pressing my mouth to her shoulder. “They’re our boys.”
The words come out low. Certain. Like a vow I never said out loud but have been living every damn day since the night they were born.
Mya leans back against me, her hands finding mine. “Yeah. Ours.”
We don’t talk for a minute. Just stand there in the early morning light, holding on like maybe the world can tilt a little slower today. Like maybe this time, we’ve finally made it past the storm.
“You wanna drive?” she teases, voice a little too breathy to be casual.
I kiss her temple. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
The NICU looks different today.
Not physically—it’s still the same sterile lighting, soft beeping monitors, and faint scent of hospital-grade lemon—but something’s shifted. Or maybe I’ve shifted. We have. Because today, we don’t walk in holding our breath.
Today, we walk in knowing we get to take them home.
Mya’s practically vibrating beside me, her fingers clutching the handles of the car seats like they’re anchors and lifelines all at once. Her boots squeak on the linoleum, cheeks flushed under her knit beanie, eyes shining like she’s barely holding it together.
And honestly? Same.
Imani meets us at the entrance, clipboard in hand, a huge smile breaking through her usual cool calm. “Guess what, Malone family? You’re cleared.”
I exhale—loud and sharp—like my body’s been holding that moment hostage for weeks.
Mya laughs, a little teary, a lot breathless. “Oh my God. Really?”
Imani nods. “Vitals are stable. Feeding’s consistent. Weight gain’s perfect. You did it. They did it.”
She steps aside to let us in, and I can’t lie—my heart’s already galloping like a damn stampede.
Kingston’s in his incubator, wide-eyed and alert, like he knows something big is happening. Kody is sound asleep beside him, his little fist curled next to his cheek like he’s been dreaming of this day for weeks.
Mya’s hand finds mine, and I grip it tight.
“We’re bringing them home,” she whispers.
“I know.”
She turns toward me slowly, lips trembling with a smile that could break glass. “They get to sleep in their cribs tonight. No machines. No wires. No nurses.”
“No distance,” I add, voice thick. “No glass between us.”
We dress them in the outfits she picked out—white fleece onesies with tiny ears on the hood. Ridiculous. Adorable. Perfect. She talks to them as she works, gentle and sure, like she’s always known how to be their mom. My heart clenches watching her—this woman I almost lost. This woman who’s giving me everything without even trying.
I fasten Kingston into his car seat while Mya gently tucks Kody into his. Their faces scrunch at the sudden change, but neither of them cries. Mya coos softly, covering them in the matching blankets she packed this morning like we were heading into a snowstorm and not the balmy forty-degree Texas winter.
Imani watches us with that quiet pride nurses wear like armor. She hands Mya a final packet of paperwork, and then—to both our surprise—wraps Mya in a hug.
“You fought for them,” she says, eyes glassy now. “Now you get to live for them.”
Mya nods, biting her lip so hard I swear she might draw blood.
We walk out of the NICU as a family of four, and I swear—every step feels like a miracle.
Outside, the sky is pale and wide, the wind soft. I open the truck door and start buckling the car seats into the back, double-checking every latch twice while Mya hovers behind me like a nervous bodyguard.
“You sure it’s tight enough?”
I smile up at her. “You want to check it a third time?”
She pauses. “Yes.”
I don’t even argue. I just move aside and let her pull on the straps, nodding like a woman who’s been waiting her whole life to overprepare for this exact moment.
When we’re finally in the truck, engine running, Mya glances back again to check on them.
“You okay?” I ask.
She turns to me slowly, eyes soft. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this okay in my entire life.”
The second the tires crunch over the gravel in front of the cottage, Mya’s already unbuckling her seatbelt.
“Easy,” I say, grinning as I kill the engine. “They’re not going anywhere.”
“I’ve waited ninety-four days for this,” she breathes, already half-twisting in her seat to check on the twins. “I’m not wasting another second.”
I don’t argue. I just climb out and circle around to the back, where Mya’s already opening the door, reaching for Kingston’s car seat like it contains her entire heart. Which, let’s be honest—it kind of does.
She lifts him with reverence, her body curling instinctively around the carrier like she’s shielding him from the wind, the air, the whole damn world. I grab Kody’s seat and follow her up the porch steps, each one feeling like a beat in the slowest, most beautiful drumroll of my life.
The front door swings open, and suddenly we’re inside.
Home.
Warm, safe, soft-lit home.
The quiet hits first. No beeping monitors. No medical jargon over intercoms. Just the gentle creak of wood floors and Mya’s ragged breath as she crosses the living room with Kingston, whispering to him like he can already understand.
“Ready?” I ask, hand on the nursery door.
She nods once, eyes shining. “Let’s do it.”
I open the door and step aside so she can lead the way.
The room looks exactly how we left it, and yet—it’s different now. It’s theirs now. Pale olive walls, woodland animal decals dancing across the space between the cribs. Two cherrywood cribs, side by side, with matching cream-and-sage bedding. The changing table is stocked. The shelves are lined with storybooks and lullabies.
Mya sinks slowly to her knees in front of the first crib, placing Kingston’s car seat down with shaking hands. She stares for a second—just breathes. Then unbuckles him with slow, deliberate care, lifting him like he’s made of stardust and spun sugar.
“He’s so small,” she whispers, brushing her lips over his cheek.
“Not for long,” I say softly, crouching beside her as I work Kody free of his seat.
She lays Kingston in his crib, and I do the same with Kody, who makes a little grunting noise in protest before immediately settling in. Mya and I hover over them like we’ve just discovered fire and don’t know what the hell to do with it.
“I feel like if I blink, I’ll miss something,” she says, eyes wide and glassy. “Like I’ll turn around and they’ll be teenagers who hate my taste in music and don’t need me anymore.”
I laugh under my breath. “They’ll always need you.”
She turns to look at me, chin trembling. “I didn’t think we’d get here.”
“I know,” I say. “But we did.”
She sinks back onto her heels and leans into me, and I wrap an arm around her shoulders, grounding her against my side while we both stare at the two little boys sleeping in their brand-new cribs like they’ve always belonged here.
* * *
It’s barely past midnight when I hear the first cry.
High-pitched. Sharp. Like a fire alarm packed into six pounds of human.
I jolt upright, disoriented as hell, heart already racing like I’m late for something important. And I guess I am.
Beside me, Mya stirs. “Kody,” she mumbles, voice gravel-thick and sleepy, already reaching for the baby monitor on the nightstand. “That’s Kody.”
I shouldn’t even be surprised she can tell the difference between their cried already.
I throw the covers off and grab a hoodie from the floor, tugging it over my head as I fumble for the baby wrap blanket she left folded on the dresser earlier.
She’s sitting up now, rubbing her eyes. “I’ll come with.”
“I got him,” I say gently. “You rest. You were up all night watching them breathe.”
She doesn’t deny it.
I move fast down the hallway, every floorboard somehow louder in the dark. When I reach the nursery, I find Kody already flailing in his crib like he’s personally offended we let him sleep at all.
“Hey, little guy,” I whisper, scooping him into my arms. “You didn’t get the memo? We don’t cry in this house past midnight. It’s a rule.”
He responds by grabbing a fistful of my hoodie and letting out another squawk.
Mya appears in the doorway two seconds later, wrapped in her robe, hair a sleepy mess, eyes already scanning for Kingston. “He’s still out,” she murmurs, checking the other crib. “I don’t know how, but he is.”
I cradle Kody against my chest, bouncing slightly. “He’s got your chill.”
“And Kody has your drama,” she says around a yawn.
“He’s got your lungs.”
She smiles, crooked and exhausted. “You need a bottle?”
“Already warming,” I nod toward the kitchen where the bottle warmer hums softly.
She leans against the doorframe, watching me rock him. Kody’s cries are already softening, his cheek pressed to my chest, his tiny hand still tangled in my hoodie strings like he’s afraid I might disappear.
I rub his back gently, listening to the quiet room settle again. The shadows, the soft lull of the heater, the hush between heartbeats.
Mya crosses the room and sits on the glider, pulling a warm burp cloth into her lap. “You’re good at this,” she says.
I glance at her. “At what? Sweating through my hoodie and winging it with a seven-pound dictator in footie pajamas?”
“At being a dad,” she says simply.
Something cracks open in me.
Not loud. Not sudden. Just a slow, searing shift—like my ribs rearranging to make space for this new version of myself.
I walk over and hand her the now-sleepy baby. “Your turn.”
She takes him with practiced ease, tucks him into her arms, and cradles his head like she was built for this. Which she was. I sit on the floor beside her, back to the wall, knees bent, just watching.
There’s no soundtrack. No applause.
Just this.
Two sleep-deprived adults, one barely-awake baby, and the quiet miracle of a family that almost wasn’t.
“Hey, Fletch?” she whispers after a while.
“Yeah?”
Her eyes are soft when they find mine in the dim light.
“We did it.”
I reach up and wrap my fingers around hers.
“Yeah,” I whisper back. “We really did.”
* * *
The cottage smells like coffee and baby lotion.
The sunlight slips through the sheer curtains in soft golden streaks, and somewhere in the background, a lullaby version of a rock song is playing on repeat from Mya’s phone. Kody’s curled against my chest in the wrap carrier, dead asleep, while Mya’s on the couch with Kingston, both of them snuggled under the world’s fluffiest throw blanket. She’s humming to him, all quiet and gentle and golden, like she didn’t wake up three times last night to feed and soothe and pace barefoot across the nursery floor.
This is our first full day home as a family of four, and even though I haven’t showered and I’m pretty sure there’s spit-up on my shoulder—I’ve never felt more right.
Then the knock comes.
Three sharp raps followed by the distinct sound of Reese throwing the door open herself. “I knocked! That counts!”
Mya snorts from the couch. “You barged in before I could answer.”
“I’ve waited weeks for this moment,” Reese says as she tiptoes into the living room like a woman approaching royalty. “I kept my distance. I respected the NICU rules. I wore that awful surgical mask and waved through the glass like a creep. But now—” she gasps dramatically as she spots the twins—“I demand baby snuggles.”
Kingston lets out a soft gurgle like even he knows this woman is a whole production.
Mya lifts a hand. “Sanitize. Then you can hold one.”
Reese’s purse flies across the arm of the loveseat as she darts for the sanitizer on the entry table like it’s a race. “Done. Gimme.”
I gently transfer Kody into her arms, watching as her expression shifts from goofy to reverent in two seconds flat. Her voice drops an octave. “Oh my God. He smells like heaven and hope.”
Mya grins. “That’s the baby lotion. And also, yes.”
“He’s so small,” Reese whispers, brushing a finger along Kody’s cheek. “He’s like a little dumpling.”
“Yeah,” I say. “But louder. And needier.”
“I love him already,” she beams.
The door opens again without knocking this time, and Carson steps inside like he’s walked into church. “Shoes off?” he asks, eyes already locked on Kingston.
“Yes,” Mya says. “And wash your hands.”
“We come bearing offerings,” Carson adds, already heading to the sink like a good soldier.
Benji appears behind him, holding a massive stuffed dinosaur and a bag that definitely contains food. “Brought gifts. And breakfast tacos. Because I love you and because I want to hold a baby.”
Within minutes, the living room becomes a mix of mismatched bodies and overlapping voices. Kody’s tucked into Reese’s arms like he’s been there his whole life. Carson gently cradles Kingston like he’s holding a Grammy. Benji shoves a breakfast taco into my hand and grins like he just won the lottery.
“This is insane,” he whispers, glancing down at the baby now dozing in Carson’s arms. “You made a person. Two people. Who let you be this responsible?”
“Not sure,” I mutter. “But there’s no returns, so we’re going with it.”
Benji’s still holding the dinosaur. “Do they like stuffed animals yet?”
“They mostly like milk, warmth, and not being cold,” Mya says dryly. “But I’m sure they’ll love it in a few months.”
There’s laughter, and then Thorin wanders in, wiping his hands on a dishtowel, because of course he and Reese cooked something before showing up. He walks straight to Mya, presses a kiss to her forehead, and says, “You did good, mama.”
Her eyes shine with tears that don’t fall.
“I’m proud of you,” he adds, just low enough for her to hear.
I blink a few times because yeah, okay, that hit harder than expected.
Reese nods toward the kitchen. “I made cinnamon rolls. They’re gluten-free but still sexy.”
“We’re not kicking you out,” Mya says, “but you guys do know they’ll need to nap in, like, twenty minutes, right?”
“Right,” Carson says, already reaching for another taco.
Benji stretches out on the rug, staring up at the ceiling like he’s processing the enormity of life. “I just feel so weirdly emotional. Like, this is the beginning of everything.”
“It is,” I say, glancing at Mya.
She meets my gaze and smiles, soft and a little sleep-rumpled, and suddenly everything else fades to background noise.