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Because they are.

And she’s mine.

The NICU smells like hope.

Or maybe that’s just Mya—standing beside me, wrapped in soft cotton and quiet awe, her fingers twitching like her body’s still catching up to the miracle in front of her. The morning light filters through the tall windows, throwing a halo over the incubators that hold everything good and terrifying in the world.

Imani, the NICU matron, greets us with her usual calm grace. She’s a force of nature in scrubs, with a kind smile and the kind of presence that instantly soothes your chest even when you didn’t realize it was tight.

“They’ve had a good night,” she tells us, glancing at her tablet. “Feeding tubes are still in, but they’re tolerating milk well. Oxygen levels are stable. Kingston even pulled off his monitor again.”

I huff out a breath that might be a laugh. “Sounds like someone’s already trying to make a break for it.”

Mya’s lips twitch. She’s pale, still a little shaky on her feet, but when I slide my hand into hers, she leans into me like she belongs there. Like maybe she’s starting to believe she does.

“You ready to hold them again?” Imani asks gently, eyes flicking between us like she already knows the answer.

Mya nods, that breathless kind of nod you give when you’re afraid wanting something too much might make it disappear. “Yes. Please.”

We wash our hands like it’s ritual. Like we’re about to touch something sacred. And maybe we are.

Mya goes first, settling into the recliner while Imani helps her get comfortable. She eases Kingston—tiny, perfect, still fighting—out of the incubator and into Mya’s arms with the kind of reverence usually reserved for relics or rosaries.

And I watch as Mya just… glows.

Not the kind of glow people talk about when they mean a pretty girl in good lighting. I’m talking real light. The kind that comes from inside and softens everything it touches. She looks like hope incarnate. Like she’s holding the missing piece of herself and trying not to unravel.

I strip off my hoodie and shirt when it’s my turn. Mya glances at me, and her eyes snag on my bare chest.

And that look—God.

It’s not like before. Not the charged, skin-humming tension that used to crackle between us in the backseat of my car or the silence of a hotel room. No, this is something else. Her gaze is slower. Fuller. Like she’s seeing me differently now. Like she’s seeing me.

I’m not stupid. I’ve seen her naked. I’ve had her beneath me, above me, wrapped around me like I was the only solid thing in a world gone sideways. But standing here now, bare-chested and holding our son to my heart?

This is something else.

Something permanent.

The nurse places Kody against me, and I swear I stop breathing.

He’s so small. So warm. So real.

His head tucks under my chin and his tiny chest rises and falls against mine like a butterfly’s wings, and I think—this. This is the moment my life splits clean down the middle. Before. After.

Mya’s watching me, and when our eyes meet, something passes between us—thick, golden, electric. Her lips part, like she wants to say something but doesn’t trust the weight of it yet.

And I don’t rush her.

I never will.

Not after everything.

We sit like that for a long time. No words. Just breaths and heartbeats and the faint hum of machines we’ve already learned to love. It’s quiet. Sacred. Heavy with everything we’ve survived and everything still waiting for us on the other side.

When the nurse finally takes Kody and settles him back into his incubator, I stand and move back to Mya’s side.

She reaches for my hand without thinking.