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We dress them in the outfits she picked out—white fleece onesies with tiny ears on the hood. Ridiculous. Adorable. Perfect. She talks to them as she works, gentle and sure, like she’s always known how to be their mom. My heart clenches watching her—this woman I almost lost. This woman who’s giving me everything without even trying.

I fasten Kingston into his car seat while Mya gently tucks Kody into his. Their faces scrunch at the sudden change, but neither of them cries. Mya coos softly, covering them in the matching blankets she packed this morning like we were heading into a snowstorm and not the balmy forty-degree Texas winter.

Imani watches us with that quiet pride nurses wear like armor. She hands Mya a final packet of paperwork, and then—to both our surprise—wraps Mya in a hug.

“You fought for them,” she says, eyes glassy now. “Now you get to live for them.”

Mya nods, biting her lip so hard I swear she might draw blood.

We walk out of the NICU as a family of four, and I swear—every step feels like a miracle.

Outside, the sky is pale and wide, the wind soft. I open the truck door and start buckling the car seats into the back, double-checking every latch twice while Mya hovers behind me like a nervous bodyguard.

“You sure it’s tight enough?”

I smile up at her. “You want to check it a third time?”

She pauses. “Yes.”

I don’t even argue. I just move aside and let her pull on the straps, nodding like a woman who’s been waiting her whole life to overprepare for this exact moment.

When we’re finally in the truck, engine running, Mya glances back again to check on them.

“You okay?” I ask.

She turns to me slowly, eyes soft. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this okay in my entire life.”

The second the tires crunch over the gravel in front of the cottage, Mya’s already unbuckling her seatbelt.

“Easy,” I say, grinning as I kill the engine. “They’re not going anywhere.”

“I’ve waited ninety-four days for this,” she breathes, already half-twisting in her seat to check on the twins. “I’m not wasting another second.”

I don’t argue. I just climb out and circle around to the back, where Mya’s already opening the door, reaching for Kingston’s car seat like it contains her entire heart. Which, let’s be honest—it kind of does.

She lifts him with reverence, her body curling instinctively around the carrier like she’s shielding him from the wind, the air, the whole damn world. I grab Kody’s seat and follow her up the porch steps, each one feeling like a beat in the slowest, most beautiful drumroll of my life.

The front door swings open, and suddenly we’re inside.

Home.

Warm, safe, soft-lit home.

The quiet hits first. No beeping monitors. No medical jargon over intercoms. Just the gentle creak of wood floors and Mya’s ragged breath as she crosses the living room with Kingston, whispering to him like he can already understand.

“Ready?” I ask, hand on the nursery door.

She nods once, eyes shining. “Let’s do it.”

I open the door and step aside so she can lead the way.

The room looks exactly how we left it, and yet—it’s different now. It’s theirs now. Pale olive walls, woodland animal decals dancing across the space between the cribs. Two cherrywood cribs, side by side, with matching cream-and-sage bedding. The changing table is stocked. The shelves are lined with storybooks and lullabies.

Mya sinks slowly to her knees in front of the first crib, placing Kingston’s car seat down with shaking hands. She stares for a second—just breathes. Then unbuckles him with slow, deliberate care, lifting him like he’s made of stardust and spun sugar.

“He’s so small,” she whispers, brushing her lips over his cheek.

“Not for long,” I say softly, crouching beside her as I work Kody free of his seat.