Chapter Twenty-One #2
“Eight pounds,” Sterling said. “Good size.”
I realized my face was wet. I did not address this. There were more important things happening than the fact that I was standing in an infirmary crying while Sterling delivered my son—our son—into the world.
Sterling placed the baby in Jackson’s arms, and Jackson went still in a way I’d never seen him go still before—not the tactical stillness he used under pressure, but something else entirely, a man arriving somewhere he didn’t know he was going.
His face, which had been tight with pain and concentration a moment before, softened into an expression I’d never seen on it—unguarded and wondering and nothing like the flat, controlled face he showed the world.
“Jesus Christ,” Jackson said, his voice rough. “He’s real.”
I couldn’t answer. My throat had closed around whatever I might have said, leaving me standing there with my hand still in Jackson’s, watching him hold our son for the first time.
The baby’s eyes were squeezed shut, fists still working at his chest, his breathing coming in the quick, light pattern of a newborn. He was red-faced and furious, tiny feet kicking at the blanket wrapped around him, his mouth opening and closing in small, determined movements.
Jackson looked up at me—said nothing, didn’t need to—and shifted the baby slightly, an invitation.
I leaned in, close enough that I could feel the heat coming off the tiny body, and looked at my son for the first time. I counted his fingers—all ten of them—because I couldn’t help it.
One hand had worked its way free of the blanket, and I watched as it opened and closed in what seemed like random exploration. He was so small. I’d been told eight pounds, I’d watched the ultrasound, but knowing and seeing were two different things.
He was so small, and he was ours.
“Mateo,” Jackson said, his voice rough and low.
Not a question.
I looked up at him, surprise cutting through the fog in my brain. I’d floated the name weeks ago across the kitchen table, one of a dozen, and Jackson had said it wasn’t terrible, which from Jackson was practically a standing ovation. I hadn’t known until this moment that he’d kept it.
Jackson looked back at me, his expression open in a way that made something in my chest tighten. “Mateo,” he said again, firmer this time.
“Mateo Cruz,” I said, the words coming out steady despite the chaos in my head.
Jackson nodded once, slow, the way he filed things that matter. He shifted the baby again, more deliberately this time, and I realized he was trying to pass him to me.
“I’ll drop him,” I said, the words coming out before I could stop them.
“You won’t,” Jackson said. “I’ve got you both.”
I pulled the chair close to the bed and sat with my elbows on my knees, close enough to touch them both. Jackson held the baby out, waiting for me to take him, and I felt my hands—hands that had held weapons and carried wounded men off battlefields—start to shake.
“He’s smaller than he looks,” I said.
“He’s exactly what he’s supposed to be,” Jackson said. “Take him, Cruz.”
I did. The weight of him settled into my arms, lighter than I’d expected, solid in a way I hadn’t. He stopped crying the moment Jackson passed him to me, his eyes still squeezed shut, one hand working free of the blanket again.
I watched it wave in the air, tiny fingers splayed, and felt something in my chest expand until I wasn’t sure there was room for my lungs anymore.
“He knows your voice,” Jackson said. “You’ve been talking to him for months. He knows who you are.”
The baby—Mateo—made a small, soft sound that wasn’t quite a cry. I shifted him carefully, one hand supporting his head the way I’d seen Sterling do, and felt his weight settle against my chest. He smelled like salt and something sweet I couldn’t name, his skin impossibly soft under my palm.
“Jesus,” I said, because it was the only word I could find.
Jackson’s hand came to rest on Mateo’s back, the three of us connected in a way that made the rest of the room fade into background noise.
Behind us, Sterling and Jasper moved through the room, quiet and efficient, their voices low as they worked. They were talking about blood pressure and fluids and something about Jackson’s stitches, but it all sounded distant, like it was happening in another room.
Mateo’s fist, impossibly small, had found the edge of my thumb and curled around it. His grip was surprisingly strong, his tiny fingers locking around mine with a determination that made something in my chest crack open again.
I looked at Jackson, at the dark circles under his eyes and the exhaustion written into the lines around his mouth, and couldn’t find words for any of it.
“He’s perfect,” I said finally. “You’re perfect. This is—“ I stopped, the words deserting me again.
Jackson nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “It is.”
The valley was bright outside the infirmary window, morning light catching the new leaves on the cottonwoods along the creek. The mountains stood solid against the sky, the same view I’d woken up to every morning for the past six months.
Nothing had changed, and everything had.
The life I’d spent six months building toward was exactly as real as the weight of my son in my arms and the press of Jackson’s shoulder against mine as he leaned in to look at Mateo’s face.
“He’s got your nose,” Jackson said.
“Poor kid,” I replied, the words coming automatically. “At least he’s got your eyes.”
“They’re closed,” Jackson pointed out.
“They’ll open,” I said. “And then you’ll see.”
Jasper appeared at the edge of my vision, holding a clipboard and wearing the calm expression he always put on when things were complicated. “We need to check a few things,” he said. “And Jackson needs to rest. You can hold him again in a minute.”
I nodded, not quite ready to hand Mateo back, but understanding the medical necessity. Jackson took him from my arms with careful hands, settling him against his chest with the ease of someone who’d been practicing for months.
I watched them, the two most important people in my life, and felt something settle in my chest that had been loose for as long as I could remember.
Sterling appeared beside Jasper, his face as unreadable as ever. “The farmhouse is ready,” he said. “We’ve moved the bassinet into the bedroom, and Decker’s bringing over food. You’re both cleared to go home whenever you’re ready.”
I nodded, still watching Jackson with Mateo. “Copy that,” I said, the military response coming automatically. “Thank you.”
Sterling’s mouth curved into the almost-smile that was as close as he got to expressing emotion. “Congratulations,” he said, and moved away, giving us space.
Jasper lingered a moment longer. “The baby’s perfect,” he said. “And Jackson’s recovery should be straightforward. You did good, both of you.”
“We had help,” I said, gesturing at the room around us.
“Not as much as you think,” Jasper replied, and followed Sterling out, leaving the three of us alone in the suddenly quiet room.
Mateo had fallen asleep against Jackson’s chest, one fist still curled around the edge of the blanket, his breathing deep and even.
Jackson was watching him with an expression that still didn’t look like it belonged on his face—soft and open and nothing like the controlled blankness he usually showed the world.
“He’s the size of my boot,” I said, because I needed to say something, and that was what came out.
Jackson snorted. “That’s not a compliment, Cruz.”
“It’s an observation,” I corrected. “And he’s still perfect.”
Jackson looked up at me, his eyes clear despite the exhaustion written into every line of his face. “Yeah,” he said. “He is.”
I pulled the chair closer to the bed and sat with my elbows on my knees, close enough that our shoulders were touching. Jackson shifted Mateo slightly, making room for me in their space, and I felt something in my chest expand again.
We sat like that in the quiet morning light, the three of us together for the first time, watching our son sleep while the valley woke up around us.
And maybe, just maybe, that was all we needed to do.
~ The End ~