Page 135

He’s barefoot, hoodie half-zipped, hair still damp from the barn or the studio—wherever he was, I can tell he’s been working. Creating. Breathing music the way I breathe in baby-soft air and second chances.

I lean back against the crib, folding my arms.

“My sister called.”

His brows lift. “Isabel?”

“Yeah.” My throat is dry. “First time in almost a year.”

His eyes flick toward the twins, then back to me. “What’d she say?”

I let out a breath. “That she should’ve called sooner. That she was sorry. That she didn’t know how to be there and then just… didn’t.”

He moves toward me slowly, stopping just a foot away. Close enough to touch. Far enough to let me choose.

“And how do you feel about that?”

I blink up at him. “Like I can’t tell if I’m relieved or raw.”

He nods once, like he understands both.

“I kept thinking about this moment from… before,” I whisper. “In the dream. The coma. Whatever it was.”

Fletch’s hand brushes mine.

“There was this dinner,” I continue, staring at the space between us. “Thanksgiving, I think. I was pregnant, but no one looked at me like I was carrying a miracle. Just a problem.”

His jaw tightens, like he’s already bracing for what comes next.

“Isabel was sitting across from me,” I say, voice flat. “She said, ‘I still can’t believe you’re having babies before getting married… but I guess standards have… shifted.’”

Fletch’s breath audibly leaves his body.

“And Sofia—because of course it was both of them—goes, ‘I mean, I get it. Not everyone needs a ring to feel validated.’”

He’s silent, eyes locked on mine. Waiting.

“My mom didn’t say anything. Just kept passing cranberry sauce like I wasn’t being gutted at the table.”

I swallow the lump climbing its way up my throat.

“It was my dad who said something. Snapped at them. Told them that was enough.” I press a palm over my chest like I can quiet the memory just by touching it. “And Isabel… she laughed. Said, ‘Of course you’d defend her. She’s always been your favorite.’”

I exhale, shaky. “I don’t know if it really happened or if it was my brain trying to process stuff I never said out loud. But I felt it. I feel it.”

Fletch steps closer. Close enough that I can feel the heat of him wrap around me like a second skin. His fingers thread through mine.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice rough. “You didn’t deserve that.”

I nod, fighting tears. “She wants to meet the boys.”

“And do you want her to?”

My eyes drift back to the cribs. To the two little reasons my world spins differently now.

“I don’t know. But I said okay.”

Fletch squeezes my hand. No judgment. No pressure. Just presence.