I press a kiss to his forehead, breathing in his little boy scent, baby shampoo and graham crackers and something uniquely Isaac. "Love you, buddy," I whisper, even though he can't hear me.
Riley is next. She's harder to extract from Amelia without waking her, tangled up as she is with her fist still clutching Amelia's shirt. I work carefully, gently prying her fingers loose and lifting her into my arms. She's getting so big. Six years old and already so fierce, so stubborn, so much like her mother it sometimes steals my breath.
She stirs as I carry her upstairs, her eyes cracking open just enough to register my face. "Dad?" Her voice is thick with sleep, confused.
"Just taking you to bed, sweetheart. Go back to sleep."
"Is Mia okay?" Even half-asleep, she's worried about Amelia. The bond between them has grown so strong over the past few weeks, and watching it develop has been both beautiful and terrifying.
"She's fine. She fell asleep on the couch too. I'll take care of her."
Riley nods, satisfied with that answer, and lets her eyes drift closed again. I settle her into her bed, pulling her favorite blanket up to her chin and smoothing her hair back from her face. She looks so much like Evie it makes my throat tight. The same delicate features, the same stubborn set to her jaw even in sleep.
"Your mama would be so proud of you," I whisper, my voice cracking on the words. "So proud of the girl you're becoming."
I stand there for too long, watching her sleep, letting myself feel the full weight of what we've lost and what we're trying to build from the wreckage. Then I force myself to leave, to pull the door closed behind me with a soft click.
Amelia is still asleep on the couch when I get back downstairs. Without the kids draped across her, she looks smaller somehow. More vulnerable. Her braid has come partially undone, strands of brown hair falling across her face. There's a crease on her cheek from where it was pressed against the couch cushion.
She's beautiful. The thought hits me with uncomfortable intensity. Not in the flashy, obvious way that turns heads on the street, but in a quieter way. The kind of beauty that sneaks up on you, that grows more profound the longer you look.
I should leave her here to sleep. Should cover her with a blanket and let her rest. But the couch really is terrible, and she'sgoing to wake up with her neck killing her if she stays like this all night. And the selfish part of me, the part I'm trying very hard not to examine too closely, wants an excuse to touch her. To hold her, even if it's just to carry her to a proper bed.
I crouch down beside the couch, reaching out to touch her shoulder gently. "Amelia," I say softly. "Hey, wake up."
She doesn't respond, just makes a small sound and turns her face further into the cushion.
I try again, a little louder. "Amelia. Come on, sweetheart, you can't sleep here all night."
The endearment slips out before I can stop it, and I freeze, waiting for her to wake up and call me on it. But she just shifts slightly, her eyes still firmly closed.
Looks like we're doing this the hard way.
I slide one arm under her knees, the other behind her back, and lift her as carefully as I can. She's lighter than I expected, or maybe I'm just running on enough adrenaline that everything feels easy. She makes another small sound as I adjust my grip, her head lolling against my shoulder, but she doesn't wake.
Carrying her through the house feels surreal. Like I've stepped into some alternate version of my life where this is normal, where I'm allowed to hold her like this without guilt gnawing at my insides. Her scent wraps around me, rose and something sweeter underneath, not quite masked by whatever blockers she uses. It makes something in my chest pull tight, my Alpha instincts perking up in ways I've been trying very hard to ignore.
The guest room is near the end of the hall, tucked away from the kids' rooms and our own. We'd set it up for her weeks ago, when it became clear she'd be staying later some nights, when we wanted her to have a place to rest if she needed it. She hasn't used it much, usually insisting on going home to Dylan's, but right now I'm grateful it's here.
I push the door open with my shoulder and carry her inside. The room is simple but comfortable, a double bed with a soft quilt, a dresser, a chair by the window. Moonlight streams through the partially open curtains, painting everything in shades of silver and shadow.
I lay her down as gently as I can, trying not to jostle her. She immediately curls onto her side, seeking warmth, and I pull the blanket up over her, tucking it around her shoulders.
I should leave. Should back away and let her sleep. But I find myself kneeling beside the bed instead, watching the rise and fall of her chest, the way her eyelashes cast shadows on her cheeks in the moonlight.
Her eyes flutter open, barely, just enough to register my face hovering over her. "Hunter?" Her voice is soft and confused, thick with sleep.
"I've got you," I say quietly, my throat suddenly tight. "Just getting you somewhere more comfortable. Go back to sleep."
She blinks slowly, processing this, and then her hand emerges from under the blanket to catch mine. Her fingers are small and warm, slightly calloused from all the work she does around the house. The touch sends electricity up my arm, makes my breath catch in a way that has nothing to do with exertion and everything to do with how much I want things I have no right to want.
"Thank you," she whispers, her eyes already drifting closed again. "For letting me be here."
The words crack something open inside my chest. She thinks we're doing her a favor. Thinks she should be grateful that we've allowed her into our broken home, into our chaotic lives. She has no idea that she's the one holding us together, that the house feels like it can breathe again with her in it.
My throat works, trying to force words past the emotion lodged there. "Thank you for staying."
It comes out rougher than I intended, raw and honest in a way that should probably embarrass me. But her hand squeezes mine, just once, before going slack as she falls back into sleep.
