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Him.

The man who’d never let me go, even when I tried to push him away, and now, finally, I reached back, and I will keep reaching for him every damned day. Never letting him slip through my fingers ever again.

I let out a shaky breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding, when the door suddenly creaks open and every single one of us freezes.

Maddox steps in, broad shoulders silhouetted against the hallway light, his shirt rumpled, hair damp at the temples like he’s run his hands through it too many times. His glasses perched on top of his head. The second he crosses the threshold, the entire room stands as one—chairs scraping back, breath held, hearts in our throats.

His eyes sweep across us—Joe clutching her necklace, Mags on the verge of tears, Henry straightening beside the boys, Mercy with a quiet prayer on his lips. Even Vic stops pacing. The silence is thick enough to choke on.

“Still no baby,” Maddox says finally, stepping into the room. His voice is low but steady—rough like gravel, yet carrying a quiet warmth underneath. “But mama and baby are doing good. Evie got her epidural and is dilated to a seven.”

A collective breath whooshes through the room, filling the heavy silence. Shoulders that had been tight and trembling sag with relief. The tension that has held us hostage cracks and spills out like a breaking wave, washing over us in a rush of quiet hope.

From his spot between the boys, Merc breaks the fragile calm with a laugh. “Seven? Dear God. Might want to tell Doc to put an extra stitch in once she births your big head ass baby.”

Maddox narrows his eyes and shoots him a look sharp enough to cut glass while a faint smile tugs at his lips. “Shut the hell up and change your shirt.”

I glance down and catch the words on Merc’s chest—Got Milk?—in faded, bold letters.

Beside me, Henry’s shoulders shake with suppressed laughter, his breath catching in quick, shaky bursts. Maddox turns his searing gaze on him, silence sharp between them before his eyes soften as they land on me.

“Lou,” he said, voice dipping low, rough around the edges, a raw edge underneath the calm. “She’s asking for you.”

My heart slams against my ribs. “Me?”

Maddox holds the door open. “Yeah, she said to drag your stubborn ass back if need be.”

A shaky laugh bubbles out of me before I can stop it, and something inside me—something tight and old and scared—finally lets go.

I stand, sketchbook still in one hand, following Maddox out the door, Henry’s touch still burning faintly against my skin. The cool air of the hallway brushes over me, but the warmth lingers stubbornly, a quiet reminder of what I’d almost lost.

We walk in silence, the soft click of our footsteps swallowed by the sterile stillness. Then I feel Maddox’s gaze drop to me, heavy and searching.

“You know how much she loves you?” His voice is low, rough around the edges but filled with something raw and fierce.

I swallow and meet his eyes. “Yeah, I do.”

He keeps walking, but his tone grows softer, almost vulnerable. “She’s been worried sick about you. After everything that happened with her and Allie, to you finding out she left you the boys, to Dallas and… Henry.”

I bite back the ache twisting in my chest. “I’m fine.”

“No, Little Lou,” Maddox says quietly, his voice dropping even lower, like a warning and a promise all at once. “But I think you will be.”

He doesn’t need to say another word. I know grief—the empty, suffocating pit that drags you under and threatens to drown you whole. Maddox has stared into that darkness and come out the other side, raw but unshattered. Standing here, steady as a God damn rock, he is a living proof that you can carry the weight of everything life throws at you and still keep moving forward. Like a fierce, unyielding light cutting through the shadows, he’s showing me how to survive without losing myself in the process.

God, I sure do love the big brute.

“Thank you.”

Maddox slides his glasses down from the top of his head, settling them on his face with one hand. He gives me a small nod—quiet, solid—and then opens the hospital room door.

A massive pink wreath hangs on it, the ribbon letters loud and proud: Baby Wilder.

The moment we step inside, the world narrows. The room is dim and sterile, the overhead lights low, casting everything in a soft blue-gray hue. A chill clings to the air, almost too cold, like the kind of cold that seeps into your bones and makes your teeth ache.

The only sound is the rhythmic thump of the baby’s heartbeat from the monitor, steady and strong. It echoes through the quiet like a drum, grounding and fragile all at once.

“Well,” I say, easing down into the chair beside Evie and taking her hand in mine, “this isn’t anything like the last time we did this.”