Page 31

I swallow hard, throat tight with guilt.

Because a week ago, the legal documents finalizing the termination of his paternal rights were couriered to him in Horseshoe Bay. Documents that I signed with shaking hands and a part of my heart permanently folding in on itself.

I haven’t told Reese.

And I won’t.

Not yet.

Because Fletch may not be the father I want for these babies, but he’s still the man Reese has to face every day in the chaos of promo schedules and sound checks. And I won’t add fuel to the fire.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, hating how hollow it sounds.

“I’m just so—” Reese presses her palms to her face. “—frustrated. The album launches in three weeks. The tour starts next month. We have three final tracks that need to be locked before Friday and he keeps fucking up. Penelope’s losing her mind. Thorin’s trying to play diplomat. And Carson nearly broke his bass over the booth wall.”

I blink. “Wait. Carson? Chill-as-a-cat Carson?”

Reese nods wearily. “Apparently even he have limits.”

I bite my lip. “I’ve… I’ve been getting texts from the guys.”

Her head jerks up. “What?”

“Not about this,” I say quickly. “Nothing about the band. Just… checking in. Thorin asked how I’ve been sleeping. Benji sent a playlist for ‘twin lullaby vibes.’ Carson forwarded me a YouTube video about soundproofing a nursery.”

Reese’s expression flickers. Relief, maybe. Maybe something more complicated.

“They care,” I add, softer now. “They’re trying to make space between what’s falling apart and what still matters.”

“Yeah.” Her voice breaks on a whisper. “Yeah, they are.”

And suddenly, she looks… small.

Not weak. Never weak.

But tired. In the way only someone holding everyone else together gets tired.

So I shift the conversation. I pivot like my life depends on it.

“Guess who’s almost one?” I ask, a grin tugging at my lips.

Reese blinks, caught off guard. “Eli?”

“Eli,” I confirm. “I saw the post. He’s got two teeth now, right? And that mohawk curl that will not quit?”

Reese’s whole face lights up.

“Yes!” she laughs. “He looks like a baby rock star. He smacked Thorin in the face with his rattle yesterday and didn’t even blink.”

I laugh with her, picturing it.

“I’ve already started planning his party,” she continues, energy rising with every word. “I’m talking balloon arches, smash cake, a bubble machine, tiny leather jackets for the theme. I might be unwell.”

I smile so hard it aches.

There it is. That spark. That fire.

Reese, rising.