Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
FLETCH
T here’s a softness to her now.
Not the fragile kind. Not the kind that folds under pressure or needs constant reassurance. It’s a radiant, untouchable softness—the kind that wraps around me like a lazy Sunday morning and refuses to let go. The kind I’ve been starving for.
She hums under her breath as she moves through the kitchen, barefoot, loose sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder, and I swear I could write symphonies about that bare patch of skin. Her smile catches me off guard when she glances over, like it doesn’t hurt anymore to be happy. Like we’re no longer just surviving.
Like we’re living.
And maybe that’s what’s shifted. It’s not just that the twins are thriving or that we’re no longer walking tightropes over ICU fears and 3 a.m. sobs. It’s that Mya—my Mya—is laughing again. Smirking again. Dragging me down the hall by the collar of my shirt when the twins nap, like we’re some couple in a music video with too many hormones and zero shame.
I love it.
Hell, I crave it.
We’re insatiable, and I’m not even pretending to apologize for it.
I can’t keep my hands off her. She can’t stop touching me. It’s like sex opened a floodgate of tension we didn’t know we were drowning in, and now we’re drinking each other like a cure.
And yeah, sure, we’re exhausted. Our sleep comes in four-hour intervals—if we’re lucky—and I’ve mastered the art of changing a diaper with one hand while texting Carson with the other. But between it all, we find each other. Between feedings and burp cloths and diaper pails, we carve out little moments of heat that belong only to us.
Like now.
Her hips sway as she reaches for a fresh burp rag, and I’m already walking toward her before I realize I’ve moved. My fingers slide along the sliver of skin above her waistband. She tenses, then relaxes into my touch like she was waiting for it.
“I see that look,” she murmurs, eyes still focused on the drawer. “You’re trouble.”
“And you like it.” I nuzzle her neck, lips brushing the spot that makes her breath catch. “You’re smiling again.”
“So are you.”
I turn her around, back hitting the counter. Her gaze flickers to the monitor on the island, checking for movement on the baby cam.
Clear.
And just like that, her fingers are in my shirt, tugging me closer.
“I’ve got ten minutes,” she breathes.
I grin. “That’s all I need.”
Her laugh is a wicked little thing that lights me up from the inside out.
We don’t make it to the bedroom.
I lift her onto the edge of the kitchen island, one hand braced at the small of her back, the other tangled in the waistband of her leggings. She gasps when the cool granite kisses her thighs, her lips parting on instinct—and I’m already gone.
Her leggings and panties come off in one tug, like the fabric offended me. They fall to the floor in a messy heap, and my hands are already trailing up her thighs before I even register the thump of denim meeting tile.
Her breath hitches as I unzip my jeans, my fingers fumbling in that way they only do when I’m desperate and greedy and one second away from losing my goddamn mind.
Mya bites her lip, eyes glued to my hands. “Hurry,” she whispers, and there’s nothing delicate about the way she says it. It’s a command, not a plea.
“Yes, ma’am,” I murmur, half-laughing, half-dying, and shove my jeans down just enough to free myself—bare my ass to the room and the world and anyone who might walk in, not that I give a single shit.
She palms it the second it’s in reach, nails digging in just a little. “You’re a menace,” she says, voice breathless, cocky, and flushed all at once.
“And you’re wet.” I drag a finger through her slick folds, and her hips jerk.
“Shut up and fuck me.”
My head drops against her chest, a rough sound tearing from my throat. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“Then die doing something you love.”
Jesus.
My hands wrap around her thighs as I yank her forward, angling her just right. The moment I push inside, the rest of the world falls away. Her fingers clutch my shoulders, mouth parting on a sound that wrecks me—and suddenly it’s not just about getting off, it’s about claiming every piece of this woman that already belongs to me.
Every sigh. Every shiver. Every breathless little moan she doesn’t realize she makes when I hit just right.
She holds onto me like she can’t remember where I end and she begins, and I kiss her like I’m trying to memorize the exact shape of her mouth.
The baby monitor blinks in the corner of my eye.
Still quiet.
I deepen the thrust.
Mya throws her head back, laughing through a moan. “We’re terrible parents.”
“We’re amazing parents,” I grunt, sliding my hand between us to circle her clit. “And we’re even better at this.”
She gasps, biting down on her knuckle to keep from screaming.
And I can’t stop thinking how good this feels. How good we feel. Like this is what the hard days led to. This is the payoff. The peace. The fire.
The goddamn home I never thought I’d have.
She clings to me like she’s trying to keep gravity from pulling her back down—and honestly? Same.
I don’t want to let go.
We stay like that for a beat too long, panting, foreheads pressed together, her thighs still locked around my waist and my arms bracketing her on the island like I’m scared she’ll disappear if I move.
Her body is slick and soft and warm, and I’m still pulsing inside her when she lets out a quiet, giddy sound that sits somewhere between a breathless laugh and a satisfied sigh.
“Okay,” she whispers, “I take it back.”
My brow lifts. “Take what back?”
“That thing I said this morning about needing a nap more than needing your dick.”
I chuckle, brushing a kiss to the corner of her mouth. “Bold of you to assume I didn’t take that personally.”
“You pouted.”
“I don’t pout.”
“You pouted and ate half a granola bar in retaliation.”
I grin, nuzzling her neck. “Don’t act like that granola bar didn’t turn you on.”
“Everything turns me on lately,” she mutters, sliding her hands down my bare back and giving my ass a little slap. “You could wear a dish towel and I’d still try to climb you like a tree.”
I press a lazy kiss to her collarbone. “Remind me to do the dishes shirtless later.”
She hums. “Please do. Might end up pregnant again.”
My heart skips. Then stutters. Then lands somewhere in my throat. I know she’s joking—I think she’s joking—but still… the image doesn’t feel terrifying the way it used to.
Just… tender.
And dangerous in the most beautiful way.
“You’d look hot pregnant again,” I murmur, my voice low and full of something I don’t even try to hide.
She stills. Just for a second.
Then she kisses me slow, like she knows exactly what I meant and isn’t ready to touch it yet. “We have two newborns and zero brain cells left between us.”
“Yeah,” I sigh. “But damn, we make cute kids.”
“Fact,” she says, tucking a damp strand of hair behind my ear. “Also a fact? We’ve got maybe three minutes before the tiny gremlins wake up demanding room-temperature gourmet.”
I raise a brow. “How do you know?”
She taps her wrist like she’s wearing a watch. “Because it’s been exactly three hours since their last bottle, and my boobs don’t leak—but the baby monitor does.”
Right on cue, a sharp squawk crackles behind us, followed by a low, grumbly whimper. A second cry joins the first a breath later, higher-pitched and twice as dramatic.
A chorus of chaos.
I groan. “Your sons have impeccable timing.”
“They get it from their father.” She gives me a smug look and hops off the island, wincing as her bare feet hit the floor. “Oh god, I’m sore. Why am I sore?”
I smirk, bending to grab her panties from the floor and handing them over like a gentleman. “Maybe don’t yell shut up and fuck me if you want to walk normally after.”
“I regret nothing.”
We move on instinct—her scooping up a discarded baby sock from under a barstool, me dragging my jeans back into place one-handed while grabbing a warm bottle off the counter. The twins are crying in tandem now, their tiny voices bouncing off the walls like they’ve formed some kind of newborn metal band.
Mya starts for the nursery, calling over her shoulder, “Round three after bedtime?”
I toss her a grin that’s already feral. “You mean round four?”
She laughs. “God help us.”
I follow her down the hall, bottle in hand and love in my lungs, thinking maybe this is what happy looks like—half-dressed, wildly in love, and late to every single nap schedule.
And yeah.
I regret nothing too.
“Only if you take the loud one,” Mya grins, already halfway down the hall with her sweatshirt bunched in one hand and that sleepy, satisfied glow still clinging to her skin.
I grab the baby monitor and follow her, shaking my head like I’m not low-key obsessed with the way she moves, the way she doesn’t even pause before flipping on the nursery light and gliding toward Kody’s crib like she’s been doing this her whole damn life.
We don’t speak. We don’t need to.
I reach for Kingston while she scoops up Kody, both boys red-faced and furious with hunger like we haven’t just fed them a thousand times today. The moment I lay him on the changing table, I catch a whiff of what awaits.
“Oh no.”
Mya laughs—full and unbothered. “Let me guess—yours too?”
“Code brown,” I confirm grimly.
“We’ve been double-bombed.”
“Why are they always in sync?” I mutter, popping open a clean diaper with the resigned flair of a man who’s been humbled by tiny butts.
“They’re twins, Fletch. Sync is in their DNA.”
We get to work without missing a beat—wipes flying, diapers swapped, onesies peeled off with the dexterity of Olympic gymnasts who’ve trained for this exact moment. She finishes just before I do and raises her hand for a high five.
I smack it with a grin. “We should be on a parenting reality show.”
“Only if it’s aired after midnight and half the footage is us half-naked and arguing about who left the burp cloth in the fridge.”
“Or sneaking sex in the kitchen between bottle feeds.”
“Exactly.” She kisses the top of Kody’s head and then passes him off to me while she heads into the kitchen to prep bottles.
I follow with Kingston bundled in my arms, his cries tapering off as soon as he feels movement. By the time I settle him into his rocker, Mya’s already got two warm bottles lined up like clockwork, shaking them with one hand while popping the kettle off the warmer with the other.
“God, look at us,” I say, taking one bottle and handing it off like we’re running a relay. “Six weeks ago, we were googling how to hold them without breaking something.”
She snorts. “Now we’re googling if formula can cause gas or if the gas is just revenge.”
I settle onto the couch with Kingston in my lap, the bottle secure in his tiny mouth. Mya does the same with Kody beside me, her thigh pressed to mine.
And just like that, we fall into silence.
The good kind. The kind where there’s nothing left to prove and everything we need is already in the room.
“Hey,” I murmur after a minute, glancing over at her.
She looks up, eyes soft and sleepy and full. “Yeah?”
“We’re really good at this.”
She smiles, slow and real. “Yeah. We are.”
The boys go down easier than we expect.
Maybe it’s the fresh diapers. Maybe it’s the warm bottles. Maybe it’s the exhausted crying session they put on like a two-man Broadway debut, complete with dramatic sighs and perfectly timed wails. Either way, they’re out. For now.
And we don’t dare tempt fate by lingering in the nursery longer than we need to. As soon as both bassinets are still and the white noise hums like a protective forcefield around them, we back out of the room like bomb techs, breathing quiet sighs of relief the second the door clicks shut.
Mya drops her head back against the hallway wall, eyes closed, lips parted.
“You good?” I whisper.
“Give me three seconds and a blanket, and I’ll be excellent.”
I take her hand and pull her toward the living room, lights dimmed, the couch still warm from where we fed the twins. She collapses beside me with a groan that turns into a satisfied hum as I pull the throw blanket off the back and wrap it around her shoulders. She tucks her feet under my thigh, her head finding the crook of my shoulder like it was made for it.
“Is this what heaven feels like?” she murmurs, voice already heavy with impending nap vibes. “Dim lights. No crying. My feet not touching the floor.”
“I think heaven includes snacks,” I say, brushing her hair off her face. “And a house that cleans itself.”
“And boobs that don’t hurt when I lie on my side.”
“And a magic button that makes the twins sleep through the night.”
She snorts against my chest. “Now that’s divine intervention.”
I press a kiss to the top of her head, letting my cheek rest there. Her body is warm, curled into me like she belongs there, like this is our version of rest. And it is.
This is what we do between shifts. Between bottles and diapers and white-noise machines that hum lullabies more than we do.
We breathe.
Together.
I let my palm rest low on her stomach, thumb moving in slow circles. Not in a sexual way. Just in a you’re here, I’m here, we survived another day kind of way. And God, that’s enough. More than.
“How long do we have?” she asks, eyes still closed.
I glance at the baby monitor on the coffee table. “If we’re lucky? An hour. Maybe two.”
She stretches like a cat, sighs into my shirt. “Plenty of time.”
“To sleep?”
“To exist.”
I smile at that. “Should I put on a movie we’ll pretend to watch?”
“Only if it’s something we’ve seen ten times and won’t feel bad falling asleep halfway through.”
“Ocean’s Eleven?”
She doesn’t open her eyes, but she lifts her hand and offers a sleepy thumbs-up. “It’s the Clooney comfort era. I approve.”
I grab the remote, press play, and sink deeper into the couch with her. The screen glows blue and gold in the corner of my eye, but I don’t watch it.
I watch her.
How she relaxes into me like we were made to do this together.
How she trusts me enough to rest.
How I don’t want to be anywhere else.
The weight of fatherhood and sleepless nights is still there—always will be. But so is this: this couch, this calm, this woman curled into my side like home.