The test was still in my hand, the two pink lines still visible through the little window, the evidence of what had happened between us hanging in the air between us.
I watched something cross Decker’s expression that moved too fast and hit too hard to be simple—a flash of surprise, quickly controlled; a moment of calculation, already being processed; and underneath both, something that might have been hope, if I’d been brave enough to give it that name.
Decker’s expression changed—not dramatically, but completely, like a building where all the lights had just gone on at once. He put his phone in his pocket and crossed the kitchen in three long strides, took me by the arm with a gentleness that belied his strength, and steered me to one of the wooden chairs at the kitchen table.
My knees hit the wood with more force than I’d intended, my body suddenly operating on a different frequency than my brain. The test was still in my hand, the two pink lines still visible through the little window, the clear evidence of what had happened between us hanging in the air between us.
Decker crouched down in front of me, eye level, hands loose on my knees. “Together, remember?” he said. His voice was steady, but there was something underneath it that wasn’t—a slight catch on the word “together” that made my chest tighten.
I swallowed hard and nodded. “Together.”
It was what he’d said that morning with Gerald in the yard—the truth of us standing side by side against whatever came next. Not a transaction or a performance, but a choice freely made.
Jojo, who had been very busy doing absolutely nothing useful at the counter, cleared his throat with deliberate casualness. “So,” he said, looking at the test still in my hand, “are congratulations in order?”
It pulled a sound out of me that was half laugh and half something closer to a sob. “I don’t know,” I said, the words coming out with more honesty than I’d intended.
Decker answered for both of us. “They are,” he said, voice carrying that firm tone I was starting to recognize—the kind that expected compliance without demanding it. “But we need a little time.” He looked at Jojo directly. “Can you keep it between us until we’re ready to say something?”
Jojo nodded without drama, already gathering his notebook and pen. “Of course,” he said. “Just let me know when you’re ready and I’ll organize a baby shower.”
He made himself scarce with the tact of someone who had watched enough of these moments to know when to leave—just a quick squeeze of my shoulder as he passed, a nod to Decker, and then he was gone, the screen door closing behind him with a soft click.
The kitchen went quiet—just the distant hum of the refrigerator, the occasional creak of the house settling, the quality of a room where something had changed completely and couldn’t be changed back.
Decker got me up from the chair with a hand under my elbow, steady but not controlling. “Come upstairs,” he said, voice low enough that only I could hear it. “We need to talk.”
I followed him up the stairs and down the hall to his room—the room we’d been sharing for three weeks, the one with the east-facing window that caught the mountain in the morning light. The bed was still unmade, the sheets rumpled from where we’d slept, my clothes from the night before in a small pile on the floor by the dresser.
The moment the door clicked shut, the composure Decker had held in the kitchen shifted. He pulled me into a hug, tight and real, both arms around me, one hand cradling the back of my head.
I stood inside it and felt the slight unsteadiness in him—the exhale that ran a beat too long, the grip that said something his voice hadn’t said yet.
This was landing on Decker too. He was not untouched by this.
He pulled back just enough to look at me directly, hands still on my shoulders. “It doesn’t have to be a bad thing,” he said, voice steady in a way that spoke of practice rather than calm. “We can be happy about it.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice, and tried to believe him.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I said finally, the words coming out before I’d decided to offer them. “Caring for babies in the NICU always ended when my shift did. Twenty-four hours a day is a different thing entirely.”
Decker’s hands were warm through the thin cotton of my t-shirt, his eyes on mine in the morning light. “We have a ranch full of people who have already done this,” he said, keeping it simple. “Burke and Danny with Brandon. Rawley and Jojo with Ethan. Carter and Macon with Margot. We won’t be navigating it alone.”
It was true—I’d seen it over the past weeks, the way the community had made room for the children, the matter-of-fact logic with which they handled midnight feedings and diaper changes and the chaos that came with a new person in the house.
“How hard can it be?” Decker asked, with the deadpan expression of a man who had never changed a diaper in his life.
It pulled a startled laugh out of me—the release of tension that came with the recognition that whatever happened next, I wouldn’t be doing it alone. “Ask me that again in six months,” I said, “when you’ve been up for the third time in one night.”
Decker nodded once, accepting what I’d offered without pushing for more reassurance than he could give. Then he went quiet, something working behind his expression that I couldn’t quite name.
“What?” I asked, the single syllable carrying more weight than it should have been able to.
Decker looked at me directly, eyes on mine, not softening what he was about to say. “What does this mean for us?”
The question landed between us. I shook my head—not a refusal, just the acknowledgment that I genuinely didn’t know, hadn’t let myself think that far ahead, hadn’t allowed myself to plan beyond the next day since Nebraska.
“Jasper,” Decker said, my name coming out in a way that made my chest tighten. “I think we should get married.”
