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I let them rest against the blanket draped across my lap, grounding myself with texture. Cotton. Soft. Safe. Real.

Then I rise.

The nursery is quiet when I push open the door, warm and dimly lit by the soft glow of the nightlight tucked behind the dresser. The air smells like baby lotion and laundry detergent and something else—something sacred. Like peace. Like home.

They’re both asleep, swaddled into their little nests like burritos with impossibly tiny hands.

Kody is the louder one, usually. Always fussing, always making his presence known like he’s got somewhere important to be. Kingston is quieter but stubborn—he’ll stare you down in the most serious baby way, like he knows something you don’t.

I pad across the floor in socked feet and lean over Kingston’s crib first.

He’s on his side, one hand curled near his cheek, lips parted in a perfect little o. I watch his chest rise and fall and feel my own heartbeat settle into the same rhythm.

Then I step over to Kody.

He’s sprawled, arms flung wide like he’s conquered something in his sleep. Probably me. Definitely my heart.

I reach down and run my knuckle gently across his cheek.

“You’ve got no idea how lucky you are,” I whisper. “You don’t even know what’s been lost yet.”

His nose scrunches like he heard me anyway.

I let my palm settle on his chest for a second, just to feel it—the steady thump of a miracle. Something I almost didn’t get to come back for.

Something worth every second of pain, every ghost I’ve had to face.

I’m not crying. Not really. Just leaking a little, the way you do when you remember how fragile this all is. When your sister calls for the first time in a year and tells you she should’ve been there, and part of you still wants to believe she could be.

But right now, this is what matters.

Two tiny boys.

Safe. Sleeping. Home.

My whole world in matching cribs.

And me—still here to hold it all.

I’m still standing over Kody’s crib when I hear the soft creak of the nursery door opening behind me.

Then footsteps. Heavy ones. Familiar.

Fletch.

He stops just short of the rug, watching me in the low glow of the nightlight.

I don’t have to turn around to know the look on his face—the quiet concern etched between his brows, the way he runs a hand through his hair when he’s trying to give me space but doesn’t really want to.

“You okay?” he asks gently, voice low like he doesn’t want to wake the boys.

I nod without looking back. “Yeah. Just checking on them.”

He waits a beat. Then, “You’ve been quiet since I came in. Did something happen?”

My chest tightens. Not in a sharp, sudden way. More like a slow squeeze, like grief and memory teaming up to press down on my lungs.

I finally turn to him.