Worth it.
PARKER
TWO YEARS LATER
The afternoon light slants through the live oaks, painting gold stripes across the lawn where my boys chase fireflies that won’t appear for hours. Their laughter carries on the salt-sweet breeze from the harbor, mixing with Lottie’s shriek as Noah catches her around the waist, both of them tumbling into the grass Charles cut this morning.
My hand settles over the curve of my belly. I’m well past hiding now—round, soft, full of promise. The baby shifts beneath my palm—slow, deliberate—like she knows she’s safe here. Like she’s already listening to her brothers’ laughter and memorizing it.
The next breath catches when a ripple tightens low in my stomach. Not sharp. Not yet. Just enough to remind me that we’re close.
“Mama, look!” Liam holds up a stick that’s apparently a sword, his dark hair—Jace’s hair—falling into eyes that hold Cal’s mischief. “I’m protecting the castle!”
“My brave knight,” I call back, and he beams before charging after Jamie, who’s claimed the tire swing as his fortress. The air hums with heat and joy, and for a heartbeat I forget that once, all this—the laughter, the ease—was something I didn’t believe I’d ever earn.
The screen door creaks open. I don’t have to turn. Silas’s presence finds me like gravity—quiet, heavy, inescapable. He slides his arms around me from behind, palms smoothing over the silk of my sundress until they rest beneath the swell of my stomach. His breath moves through my hair, steady and warm.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” he murmurs, voice low against my temple.
“I am,” I say, though the wicker chair beneath me creaks its protest. “Someone has to supervise the war for backyard supremacy.”
His laugh rumbles through my spine, deep and rough-edged, a sound I never get tired of. I let my head fall back against his shoulder, close my eyes, and breathe in the mix of him—smoke, cedar, and the faint trace of sawdust he carries now that he’s taken over Charles’s woodworking projects. The scent grounds me, like home and danger made peace with each other.
Another wave tightens, slower this time. I breathe through it and say nothing.
“Cal’s making dinner,” Silas says. “Something that requires every pan in the house and at least three fire extinguishers.”
“And Jace?”
“Conference call. Trying to sound serious while Cal practices his chopping technique.”
I smile, picturing it—Jace in rolled sleeves, disciplined and unbending even in domestic chaos, while Cal teases him in that golden, easy tone that always pushes Jace to the edge of losing his composure. It’s the rhythm we’ve found: order, chaos, quiet—all braided together into something that feels like balance.
The door opens again, and Charles steps out carrying two sweating glasses of sweet tea. He hands one to me, the ice chiming against the glass.
“Sienna’s at the gallery until six,” he says, settling into the chair beside mine. “Asked me to make sure you eat something before she gets home.”
“I ate,” I protest.
He raises an eyebrow. “Crackers don’t count, Parks.”
“They do when they’re the only thing that stay down,” I mutter, but I sip the tea anyway. The cold sweetness helps. The next tightening comes while I’m mid-swallow, and I hide it behind a breath and a smile. This one lingers longer. The rhythm’s starting.
Silas’s thumb strokes lazy circles against my hand, tracing the pulse at my wrist. I think about the night he told me he wanted the surgery reversed—how he’d said it in that same calm tone he uses when he’s already decided something. I remember the look in his eyes when he held Liam’s hand for the first time, or when Noah fell asleep against his chest on the porch swing. The quiet wanting that never needed words.
Now his palm rests possessively on my stomach, and I know this child will carry all the love he never thought he was allowed to give.
“Uncle Cal!” Noah races toward the porch, Liam close behind. “Can we help cook?”
Cal appears in the doorway, dishtowel slung over one shoulder, grinning like he was born of sunlight. “Only if you wash those swamp creature hands first. What have you two been doing—wrestling alligators?”
“Playing pirates,” Liam corrects solemnly. “Pirates don’t wash hands.”
“Mine do,” Cal says, ushering them inside. “Hygienic pirates are the most feared on the seven seas.”
The door swings shut behind them, laughter echoing. Charles chuckles. “Never thought I’d see Cal Morrison, public menace and probable arsonist, teaching hygiene to toddlers.”
“People change,” Silas says quietly, and we all know he’s talking about himself, too.
