Charles stands and presses a kiss to the top of my head. “Don’t stay out too long. Sienna’ll have my hide if you overheat.”
When he’s gone, Silas pulls me closer, his palm spreading over the curve of our daughter. The wind shifts, bringing the scent of jasmine and saltwater. Somewhere down the beach, someone’s playing music—soft, low, the kind of song that sounds like remembering.
“Regrets?” I ask, because sometimes I still need to hear it.
His answer comes like a vow. “Never. Not one second of this.”
I turn in his arms. The scar through his eyebrow has faded to silver. There are new lines around his eyes—soft ones, carved bylaughter he never thought he’d have. The light catches on them, and I think he’s never looked more like peace.
Another tightening, stronger this time. It steals my breath for a heartbeat. I bite my lip, nodding as if agreeing with something he said, and press my hand to my belly until it passes.
“The baby could be anyone’s,” I remind him gently, though it’s a conversation we’ve had a dozen times. “We won’t know until?—”
“She’s ours,” he interrupts, voice like stone. “However, she came to us. Whoever she looks like. She’s ours.”
The possessiveness should scare me. It doesn’t. It never has—not with him, not with any of them. Maybe because I understand it. Because it’s not about ownership—it’s about anchoring. About building something that won’t break, no matter how the world tries to tear it apart.
The back door opens again, and Jace steps out, tie gone, sleeves rolled to his elbows, that Wall Street shark look softened by the coastal air. “Dinner’s ready. Cal’s threatening to eat your portion if you don’t come in.”
“Idle threats,” I murmur, but Silas is already helping me up. The ground tilts slightly beneath me, and both men reach out, steadying me—Jace’s hand at my elbow, Silas’s at my waist. The next wave hits, quiet but insistent. I swallow hard and keep moving.
“You good?” Jace asks, eyes scanning me the way he scans every room before a meeting—searching for danger.
“Perfect,” I tell him, meaning it in ways he can’t yet guess.
Inside, the house smells like garlic and lemon and something sweet Cal snuck into the sauce. The twins are setting the table,tongues poking out in concentration as they fold Sienna’s linen napkins into crooked triangles. Cal’s plating dinner with the focus of an artist, hair curling from the steam. He hums under his breath, off-key and happy.
Charles and Sienna’s windows glow across the yard, their laughter carrying faintly through the open doors. In an hour, she’ll be home, and we’ll all gather on the porch for dessert—the kids nodding off in laps while the adults talk about everything and nothing until the night wraps around us.
I used to think love was a single thing—one person, one chance, one path forward. But looking at this table, at my sons arguing over the dinosaur plate while my men move around each other with practiced ease, I understand now that love isn’t linear. It’s a circle. Expanding. Ever-growing. It doesn’t ask permission to exist. It just does.
“Mama!” Liam tugs my hand. “Sit by me!”
“No, me!” Noah protests, and before it can turn into a mutiny, Cal swoops in.
“How about Mama sits between you both? Everybody wins.”
They consider, then nod solemnly. I take my place between them, belly brushing the table’s edge. Silas sits to my left, his fingers finding mine beneath the linen. Jace claims my right, his thigh warm against mine. Cal moves around the table with a serving spoon, his grin softening when he catches me watching him.
The twins giggle, mouths full of pasta. Jace murmurs something low about expanding the guesthouse again, and Cal snorts, teasing him about spreadsheets and nursery layouts. Silas eats in silence, but his hand stays on my leg under the table, thumbtracing slow circles into my skin—a quiet promise that stills the world.
Another contraction. Sharper this time. I close my eyes and breathe through it, hand gripping the edge of the table until the wave ebbs. I don’t say a word.
Outside, twilight deepens to indigo. Fireflies begin their slow dance through the grass, blinking gold between the children’s laughter. Noah gasps, pressing his face to the glass.
“Mama! The light bugs came!”
“They always do, baby,” I tell him, smoothing his dark hair. “Even when we can’t see them, they’re there. Waiting for the right moment to shine.”
Silas squeezes my hand. Jace leans close, his breath brushing my ear. “You okay?” he whispers.
I nod, eyes on the fireflies. “I’m better than okay.”
Later, after dishes and stories and sticky goodnight kisses, the house falls into that rare hush that only comes when children finally sleep. The air smells like dish soap and sugar, faint traces of garlic still clinging to the counters. I move through it slowly, my body heavy with the rhythm of a night that isn’t over yet.
The porch light spills soft gold across the worn wood. The harbor stretches beyond, silver and endless, breathing in time with me. I pull Silas’s jacket tighter around my shoulders, the weight of it grounding. It still smells like him—cedar, smoke, the faint musk of sweat and sawdust. Home wrapped in danger and devotion.
Inside, Cal hums under his breath, a low thread of sound that winds through the creak of the house. Jace’s deeper voice answers now and then, steady, measured, a quiet protectorcounting locks while his shadow moves across the glass. The sound of them together has become my favorite kind of music.
