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Fletch walks them out, murmuring something to Thorin on the porch while Reese juggles Eli and her keys. I stay behind, standing in the now-quiet kitchen, hand braced on the back of the chair like I need to hold on to something real.

The scent of garlic lingers in the air.

The laughter still echoes faintly down the hall.

And when Fletch comes back inside, shutting the door with a soft click, I finally let myself exhale.

Chapter Twenty

FLETCH

The house is quiet now. Reese corralled the guys out the door like a tiny general in leggings and a messy bun, Eli strapped to her hip like a prize. The scent of garlic still lingers in the air, cozy and familiar, wrapping around my ribs like a reminder—she’s really here. Mya. Home.

I toe off my shoes by the door, moving on muscle memory. The sound of the wind brushing against the windows is the only thing keeping me grounded. That—and the fact that Mya’s voice is still echoing in my ears.

“I want a shower,” she said, stifling another yawn even as her eyes flicked toward the hallway.

And yeah. I remember what the doctor said. No showering alone for the first few weeks. Not after what her body’s been through. Not when her balance is still shaky and her blood pressure’s bouncing around like a pinball.

Which is how I end up standing in the bathroom doorway, hand braced against the frame, trying not to stare too hard as Mya peels off her hoodie.

“I can do it,” she says without looking at me, voice soft but firm. Determined. Like she’s trying to remind both of us she’s not fragile.

“I know,” I say. And I mean it. But I also mean, let me take care of you. I don’t say it out loud, though. She already knows.

She slides the shirt over her head next, revealing the fading bruise at her side. My breath catches.

She doesn’t miss it. “Still looks worse than it feels.”

I nod, swallowing the knot that’s been lodged in my throat since the hospital. “Still doesn’t mean I like seeing it.”

Her eyes flick up to mine, unreadable. She doesn’t smile. Just turns, reaching for the band of her sweatpants. “You gonna stay while I shower?”

I hesitate. Not because I don’t want to. But because every cell in my body remembers what it used to mean—her naked in front of me. Steam on the walls. My hands on her hips. That look she used to get when I touched her like she was made of stars and secrets.

But this?

This isn’t that.

This is reverence. This is witnessing a miracle that almost didn’t make it. This is standing in a bathroom the same color as the nursery walls she dreamed of, and watching her step under the spray like it might wash away the months she lost.

“Yeah,” I say hoarsely. “I’ll stay.”

She steps into the shower with slow, careful movements, and I take a seat on the closed toilet, eyes trained on the corner tile while the water beats down. Her silhouette shifts behind the glass, blurred and beautiful, and all I can think is—she carried our boys. She almost died doing it. And she’s still here.

I press the heels of my hands to my knees and let myself feel it for a second—the awe, the ache, the absolute fucking gratitude.

I’ve seen her naked a hundred times, in every kind of light. But this?

This is different.

She’s got a body carved by survival and sacrifice. And to me, that’s holy.

The water shuts off with a squeak, and I’m on my feet before she even opens the door, towel already in hand. She steps out, dripping and exhausted, and I wrap it around her like armor.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, leaning into me.

My hands settle at her waist. “For what?”