“Breathe, Cricket,” someone said, voice too muffled to identify.
There was a pause. Then Cricket again, lower this time, edged with effort. “Iambreathing.”
Thomas closed his eyes briefly.
Aiden squeezed his hips once, grounding. “That’s our cue.”
Thomas nodded, already stepping back, straightening hissweater, rolling his shoulders like armor settling back into place. The want lingered, warm and steady, but it no longer demanded his attention.
“Later,” Aiden said again, softer this time, but certain.
Thomas met his eyes. “Later.”
They unlocked the door together.
As it opened, the noise rushed back in. Life, chaos, family, urgency. And somewhere at the center of it all, a child on the way.
The playroom smelled like pine cleaner, the candy sweet room deodorizer that sprayed from the ceiling on a timer and something faintly fruity, apple juice, maybe. The windows were fogged from the heat inside and the cold beyond them, snowy branches tapping softly against the glass, both curious but polite. A 13-foot all-white Christmas tree dominated the far corner of the room with presents spilling across the floor. The children’s beds were all lined up for their Christmas Eve sleepover. It was cozy, soft, the kind of love and safety every kid should have.
Aiden leaned in the doorway, shoulder braced against the frame, arms folded loosely across his chest.
He stayed there on purpose.
Thomas–hisTommy, his husband, his…finally–was sitting on the rug in the center of the room, legs folded awkwardly beneath him, a newborn tucked carefully into the crook of his arm, looking impossibly precious and breakable. Aleksander Atticus Mulvaney slept through it all, small and warm and perfect, mouth slack in that way newborns had, as if the world was already too much effort.
He had Cricket’s nose and Lucas’s lips and the blue eyes all babies had at birth. Like Allister, he’d been born with a full head of hair currently hidden under his knitted hat. He was beautiful. He was perfect.
Thomas looked…undone.
Not in the frantic way he’d once been undone, sharp-edged and hyper-vigilant, calculating twelve steps ahead, ready to martyr himself before the world for the safety and security of his family. This was different. This was soft. Open. Almost boyish in the way he bent his head over the baby, murmuring nonsense under his breath, thumb stroking the tiny knit cap like he was memorizing the texture.
Aiden felt it in his chest, that ache that came when you loved something so deeply it scared you.
It wasn’t just Thomas and the new baby. The kids were everywhere.
Ara and Adi sat cross-legged directly in front of Thomas, identical down to the tilt of their heads, their dark hair pulled back in matching braids that August had done with military precision after their baths. They wore matching Christmas pajamas similar to the ones all the adults wore each year, Christmas green with candy canes and presents. The same ones Thomas and Aiden wore.
At eight years old they already had the posture of scholars–straight-backed, attentive–but Ara clutched a doll missing one shoe and Adi’s socks didn’t match, both of them leaning forward with the intense seriousness of children trying very hard to be grown. Every now and then one would reach out and smooth a finger over the baby’s cheek or hand, marveling at his softness.
Jagger and Jett were circling like sharks.
Jagger, seven, was crouched behind Thomas, trying to peek over his shoulder. Jett, six, huddled close to his brother like always, looking a little overwhelmed by the idea of a new family member.
“He’s so small,” he said.
“Mom says he’s fresh out of the oven,” Ara said.
Oscar and West were doing laps around the playroom with Theo, sporadically interested in their newest cousin but only when they grew bored of whatever toy they played with. They were three. Babies didn’t mean much to them. They found them boring. But now the three were back, hovering over him, in the baby’s space.
“Tha’s baby,” Oscar said, pushing one spit-covered finger against the baby’s cheek, making his cheek twitch.
“Careful,” Thomas said softly. “Remember we have to be gentle. He’s only a few hours old.”
Allister stayed right where he was, curled at Thomas’s knee, one small hand gripping the fabric of Thomas’s pants like an anchor. His other thumb hovered near his mouth, uncertain. His eyes were too serious for his age, already watching the baby like he was trying to solve a puzzle nobody had asked him to.
He was hyper-fixated on the apple-shaped strawberry on his brother’s temple. The one he’d told them all would be there. Apple. There was no doubt that was what they’d call him. It just felt right. He had full rosy cheeks and wide eyes and his little apple birthmark. Aiden couldn’t quite wrap his head around Allister seeing the future.
Getting impressions off of objects made sense to him, energy was neither created nor destroyed. The ability to manipulate or even telegraph that energy made sense. But for Allister to know the future relied on Aiden understanding a great deal of science dealing with things like quantum physics and multiple-world theories. It was all just too great a concept for Aiden to spend any amount of time contemplating.
