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Benji appears behind him, holding a massive stuffed dinosaur and a bag that definitely contains food. “Brought gifts. And breakfast tacos. Because I love you and because I want to hold a baby.”

Within minutes, the living room becomes a mix of mismatched bodies and overlapping voices. Kody’s tucked into Reese’s arms like he’s been there his whole life. Carson gently cradles Kingston like he’s holding a Grammy. Benji shoves a breakfast taco into my hand and grins like he just won the lottery.

“This is insane,” he whispers, glancing down at the baby now dozing in Carson’s arms. “You made a person. Two people. Who let you be this responsible?”

“Not sure,” I mutter. “But there’s no returns, so we’re going with it.”

Benji’s still holding the dinosaur. “Do they like stuffed animals yet?”

“They mostly like milk, warmth, and not being cold,” Mya says dryly. “But I’m sure they’ll love it in a few months.”

There’s laughter, and then Thorin wanders in, wiping his hands on a dishtowel, because of course he and Reese cooked something before showing up. He walks straight to Mya, presses a kiss to her forehead, and says, “You did good, mama.”

Her eyes shine with tears that don’t fall.

“I’m proud of you,” he adds, just low enough for her to hear.

I blink a few times because yeah, okay, that hit harder than expected.

Reese nods toward the kitchen. “I made cinnamon rolls. They’re gluten-free but still sexy.”

“We’re not kicking you out,” Mya says, “but you guys do know they’ll need to nap in, like, twenty minutes, right?”

“Right,” Carson says, already reaching for another taco.

Benji stretches out on the rug, staring up at the ceiling like he’s processing the enormity of life. “I just feel so weirdly emotional. Like, this is the beginning of everything.”

“It is,” I say, glancing at Mya.

She meets my gaze and smiles, soft and a little sleep-rumpled, and suddenly everything else fades to background noise.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

MYA

The twins are finally asleep, which feels like a minor miracle considering one of them screamed bloody murder because I dared to switch out his pacifier mid-suck.

The house is quiet—too quiet, almost—which should feel like peace, but tonight it feels like a trap.

And then my phone lights up.

FaceTime Incoming: Isabel.

I freeze.

Not because I’m surprised she’s calling. Because I’m surprised it’s now.

Our last conversation was almost a year ago and ended with her calling me dramatic and me calling her a spoiled brat, which—fair, but still. We don’t talk. We don’t do tearful catch-ups or birthday calls. We’re not those kind of sisters.

So why now?

I hesitate. Then swipe to answer before I can change my mind.

Her face fills the screen, impossibly composed, like she’s on her way to an influencer brunch in Tribeca. Still the same almond eyes and perfectly brushed brows, but there’s something different this time. Something softer.

“Mya,” she breathes, like my name is both a memory and a mistake.

“Hey.” My voice comes out smaller than I mean it to.