Chapter Twenty-Four
~ Caleb ~
I woke to the kind of dark that meant pre-dawn, the kind where the eastern ridge hadn’t yet decided it was morning and the house was still holding its breath.
Sterling’s arm lay heavy across my waist, his face turned toward me in sleep with an openness he never allowed himself awake.
Mitch was curved around Sterling’s back, one hand flung over both of us like a man keeping inventory, and the weight of them—the specific warmth and solidity of two grown men who had decided I was worth staying for—pressed into the mattress beneath us in a way that felt permanent.
The babies had been quiet for hours. A reprieve I’d learned not to trust. They’d been pressing against my ribs all week, turning and rolling with the enthusiasm of two people who had run out of room and hadn’t gotten the memo.
My belly had grown past the point where I could see my feet. Past the point where getting socks on was a solo operation. Socks now required two men. Mitch handled the left foot with running commentary—“The human foot is a marvel, truly, a triumph of engineering and also this sock is inside out”—while Sterling worked the right foot in silence, his big hands impossibly gentle, turning the sock the right way without being asked and sliding it over my ankle with the focused precision of a man who had done this nine thousand times and would do it nine thousand more.
Mitch talked.
Sterling worked.
I sat on the edge of the bed and felt loved in two completely different languages.
The last few weeks had been like that. Sterling making his perimeter checks, coming back to the kitchen table with a freshmug of coffee positioned to see both the front door and me simultaneously, which was not subtle and was entirely Sterling.
Mitch timing everything I did—how long it took me to get from the couch to the kitchen (nineteen seconds, down from twenty-two the week before, which he announced like it was breaking news), how many times I got up to pee at night (four, which was “completely normal and also hilarious, I’m keeping a chart”), how many deep breaths I took during a contraction practice (twelve, which Mitch insisted was Olympic-level and Sterling said was “adequate,” which from Sterling was approximately equivalent to anyone else writing poetry).
I’d been waking at three in the morning just to confirm they were still there. Not checking. Not touching. Just opening my eyes in the dark and listening for the steady rhythm of Sterling’s breathing—slow, even, the controlled inhale of a man who had learned to sleep through gunfire—and the heavier, looser sound of Mitch beside him, one arm inevitably thrown across Sterling’s chest like he was afraid the man might evaporate in the night.
They were always there. Every time. I’d count to ten, feel my heart settle, and go back to sleep.
I lay there for exactly four minutes being completely, embarrassingly happy. The kind of happy that lived behind your sternum and made your face do things you couldn’t control. Four minutes of warm yellow walls and east-facing windows and two men who loved me sleeping on either side, and then my body made a decision without consulting me.
The first contraction hit like something with a grudge. Not subtle. Not fluttery. A hard, specific band of pressure that wrapped around my lower back and squeezed with the focused determination of a person who had a schedule and was not negotiating.
“Okay,” I said. Quietly.
The pressure held.
“Okay,” I said, louder.
Sterling was upright before I finished the sentence. Full alert, eyes clear, one hand reaching for my wrist to check my pulse, which was not what you did in this situation and was so on-brand for Sterling Callahan that I almost laughed through the contraction.
Mitch sat up, blinked once. “Is it the—”
“Yes,” I said.
“Holy shit,” Mitch said, then immediately bent toward my stomach. “Sorry. Sorry. That was not appropriate. You’re very small and you don’t know words yet. Your uncle Mitch is working on his vocabulary.”
Sterling’s hand was still on my wrist. His pulse was faster than mine, which was medically concerning given that I was the one in labor.
“I need my boots,” I said. “Mitch. Boot.”
“I have my boot,” Mitch said, already halfway out of bed.
“You have one boot.”
“That’s a start.”
Sterling stood in the middle of the bedroom holding his phone like it was something that might detonate. “Jasper,” he said out loud, to no one. Then he did nothing with the phone.
“Someone call Jasper,” I said.
