“Good one,” Rowan says sarcastically, appearing from nowhere armed with folders, diaper bags, and the sort of grim focus usually reserved for trauma wards. “I packed formula, diapers, wipes, pacifiers, and backup pacifiers,” he reports, setting everything down in meticulous order. “And water for you. You need fluids every two hours, like.”
Sean whistles like he’s impressed at the same time that Willow protests, “The drive is twenty minutes.”
“We could get stuck in traffic or get in an accident,” Rowan says defensively.
“Yeah, or a zombie apocalypse could break out,” Sean tosses out, gripping Rowan’s shoulders and squeezing them.
“If there were an apocalypse, I’d just go back to the hospital,” Willow argues.
“Let him have this,” Sean mutters jokingly through clenched teeth.
I say nothing and help Rowan unload some of his haul.
When we get back to Willow’s place, the front porch smelling of the magnolia trees out front, sunlight lays itself over the rails and wicker chairs.
I’ve stood on this porch a hundred times, but never like this. Never with a baby in my arms, never as a father.
Sean hums softly beside me, his head bent toward the tiny bundle in his arms. It’s some tune he always slips into when he’s nervous or happy—something Irish and low I’d think Iwould recognize, only I don’t. Rowan stands on the other side of Willow, holding her hand unabashedly, his hand on his girl and his other hand on hisgirl.
Willow leans against the porch column, tired but glowing, her hair pulled up in a messy knot that somehow makes her even prettier. She’s watching Sean and Rowan the way she always does when she thinks no one notices—soft, full of trust.
“Are you ready to go inside?” I ask her. My voice sounds rougher than I mean it to.
“In a minute,” she says, brushing a stray curl off her forehead. “I’m just gon’ stand here a breath longer, if that’s alright.”
I understand that. Stepping into the house is like embracing the chaos of what’s to come. Right now, the porch feels like a pause between everything that came before and everything that’s about to begin. A moment in time.
Sean’s humming fades into a laugh when the baby in his arms yawns so big her whole face scrunches up.
Rowan snorts. “She got that from you. You yawn through meetings.”
Sean smirks but doesn’t argue. He’s too busy pressing a kiss to the baby’s forehead. I cringe, thinking of all the studies on RSV. I’m nearly saying it, but I know now that I can’t control everything, so I let it go.
I shift the baby in my arms, her small hand gripping the fabric of my shirt. “’Tis strong, she is,” I murmur.
Willow looks up. “Like her father.”
Her words hang there. She doesn’t say which one of us she means. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe she meansallof us.
Sean looks up too, eyes glassy but smiling. “Lads, we’re officially outnumbered, you know.”
“Three little queens,” Rowan says, the corners of his mouth softening. “God help us, altogether.”
I laugh quietly. “No helping us now.”
The babies stir, one giving a small, startled cry that fades as soon as Willow reaches for her. She takes the tiny girl from Rowan’s arms and sits on the porch swing to rock her gently, whispering something only the baby can hear.
Sean’s arm brushes mine as he steps closer. “You good? Be telling me, now,” he asks quietly.
I nod. “Better than I deserve.”
Willow glances back toward the house. “Let’s take ’em on in,” she says softly.
We move together without talking—Rowan stays close to Willow, his hand at the small of her back like he’s afraid she’ll break in half. Maybe he’s right. He’s got a baby in one hand, and Sean has two. I hover behind with the car seats, trying not to think about all the ways this could go wrong. Germs. Airborne pathogens. Furniture corners at the exact height of a soft spot.
The air inside is cooler, carrying the faint hum of the ceiling fan and the air conditioning. The scent of a salt and lime candle lingers. The nursery smells new, faintly of paint still from the mural that Rowan drew and I painted. It’s like stepping into an alternate timeline.
The first hour disappears in a blur of noise and small miracles. Feeding. Changing. Soothing. The kind of exhaustion that borders on spiritual.
