Burke materialized from the direction of the workshop with Danny half a step behind him. Burke’s eyes did the thing they did when he saw something he wanted to fix—which was everything, always—and then he saw Noah in the sling and his entire posture shifted into something warmer and considerably less useful.
He reached for Noah. Plucked him right out of the sling with the confidence of a man who had done this before and was extremely pleased about it. Noah made a small sound—not quite a complaint, more like a procedural objection—and settled against Burke’s chest like he’d been expecting the handoff.
“Look at you,” Burke said to Noah. “You’re built like a tank. Callahan genetics. Absolutely undeniable.”
“He’s a day old,” I said.
“Already running the family brand.”
Danny pressed into Burke’s shoulder, his face doing the soft, open thing it did when he was genuinely happy and trying not to show it. Burke kissed the top of his head without looking, the gesture automatic and entirely unselfconscious, and Danny murmured something against Burke’s shirt that made Burke’s arm tighten around him.
Brandon—Burke and Danny’s son—appeared from behind his father’s legs and fixed me with a stare that suggested he had questions about my operational security and was not planning to voice them.
He had Burke’s dark coloring and Danny’s careful watchfulness. He reached for Noah. Burke intercepted the hand with the reflexes of a man who had anticipated this exact maneuver.
“No,” Burke said. “That’s Uncle Sterling’s baby.”
“He’s examining the security protocol,” Danny said.
“He’s two.”
“He’s very thorough for two.”
Brandon, undeterred, dropped to his knees and began examining a rock with the focused intensity of someone who had found a more interesting problem. Burke watched him with the pride of a man who saw his own reflection in inconvenient places.
“Geologist,” Burke announced. “Calling it now. Kid’s got the eyes for it.”
“Or a raccoon,” Danny said. “He put my keys in the toilet twice last week.”
“Geologist-raccoon. Hybrid career path. Very niche.”
Liam arrived with Hooper three steps behind him. Liam took one look at the triplets and started crying. Not quietly. The full, helpless kind, the kind that came from somewhere behind his sternum and carried no apology.
Hooper handed him a tissue without looking, his eyes on the yard, his posture doing the thing it did when he was proud of someone and trying not to make a production of it.
He caught my eye across the gravel. Held it for one long beat. Then he nodded, once, the kind of nod that contained an entire conversation:You did it. I’m proud of you. This is the whole point.
I nodded back.I know. Thank you. Stop looking at me.
Hooper grinned. The grin said he had heard every word of the silent exchange and was extremely pleased with both of us for arriving at it.
Jackson and Cruz came last. Cruz moved with the quiet grace that belied his size, one hand resting on the small of Jackson’s back in a gesture that was possessive and gentle at once.
Jackson carried Mateo against his chest, Mateo’s dark hair catching the light the same way Mia’s did, and something in my chest did that complicated adjustment again.
Cruz leaned down, his mouth close to Jackson’s ear, and said something in Spanish. Low. Warm. The kind of thing meant for one person and overheard by nobody except the man standing six feet away who spoke seven languages and was not planning to use that information.
Jackson’s face softened. Completely. The way it did when Cruz said the exact right thing at the exact right time, which Cruz had a habit of doing when nobody was expecting it.
Jackson’s hand came up to Cruz’s wrist, fingers curling around it, and he didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. The yard was loud enough that their quiet belonged entirely to them.
Folding chairs appeared. Blankets. Trays of food that materialized from various points on the property as though the ranch itself had decided it was time to feed everyone. Jojo’s bread. Danny’s cookies, which were better than they had any right to be. Something Hooper had grilled that smelled like it had been marinated in whiskey and poor decisions, in the best possible way.
Children gravitated. Emilio—Liam’s son, small and watchful—pursued Macon’s daughter across the yard with the determination of someone who had identified a target and was not deviating from the mission parameters. Brandon abandoned his rock for a closer examination of the porch steps, whichBurke watched with the expression of a man who was already calculating the structural integrity of every railing within a fifty-yard radius.
After reclaiming my son, I walked Noah across the yard. Slow. Deliberate. My hand cradling the back of his head the way Jasper had shown me, thumb against the warm curve of his skull, and I talked to him in the low, steady voice I used for briefings that mattered.
“See that porch? That’s where your father sits when he’s pretending to read something tactical. The view is east. First light hits at five-forty-three this time of year. Your uncle Mitch timed it. He times everything. You’ll get used to it.”
