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The hostess leads us to a booth tucked against a massive window framed in gold trim. Outside, the city shimmers in soft focus—busy and bold and somehow so far removed from everything that’s been our reality lately. It feels like stepping into another life. One where our babies aren’t in incubators and the world doesn’t revolve around NICU monitors and hospital-grade hand sanitizer.

Reese slides into the booth like she owns the damn place and waves off the wine list before the server can even offer it.

“We’ll have two of whatever fruity cocktail your bartender’s most proud of and the duck tacos to start,” she says with a wink. “And if you don’t bring bread, I will stage a scene.”

The waiter—God bless him—laughs like she didn’t just lowkey threaten a carbohydrate-based protest, and hurries off.

I can’t help but grin. “You know we just got buffed and scrubbed and plucked like rotisserie chickens, right?”

“Exactly. Which means we’ve earned the right to inhale carbs and tequila like women who’ve been through hell and back.”

Fair.

We sit in comfortable silence for a minute, the kind you only get with someone who knows every version of you—pre-trauma, mid-chaos, post-baby-shaped plot twist.

Then Reese looks over at me, her smile softer now. “You know they’ll be home soon.”

My throat tightens immediately. “I know.”

And I do. Imani said it yesterday—if Kingston and Kody keep gaining weight and breathing strong on their own, they could be discharged in a matter of weeks. Just thinking about it makes my chest ache with a kind of happiness I forgot was even allowed.

“I bought them onesies,” I confess, like it’s some kind of secret. “I didn’t mean to. I was supposed to be grabbing shampoo.”

Reese’s face lights up. “Tell me everything.”

“They’re white. With tiny little guitars and music notes. I figured it was fitting, considering who their dad is.” My voice cracks at the edges, but I push through. “I just saw them and—I could picture it. Them. Home. Wearing those. Taking up space in our lives instead of behind hospital glass.”

Reese reaches across the table and laces her fingers with mine. “You’re going to be amazing, you know that?”

“I don’t know anything,” I whisper. “Except that I want it. All of it. The bottles. The sleepless nights. The crying. The spit-up. All of it.”

“You’ve already fought so hard for them,” she says, her eyes glassy now. “And you’re still here. You made it. And now you get to bring them home.”

A waiter interrupts with a tray of duck tacos and two gorgeous drinks in vintage glasses with flower petals floating on top. Reese releases my hand, and we pretend for a second that we’re just two regular women having a regular lunch in a regular city.

But under the table, I press my palm to my stomach.

It’s flat now. Empty. But not hollow.

Because soon… they’ll be home.

When we turn onto the gravel path that leads to the studio, I can already hear the chaos.

Drums—badly played. Laughter—loud and unhinged. Someone (probably Benji) yelling “THAT WAS ART, YOU PHILISTINE!” like this is a Broadway rehearsal and not a recording session.

Reese doesn’t even flinch. “Three guesses who’s lost his mind and none of them are Carson.”

I grin. “Honestly, I’m just impressed it took this long.”

We reach the barn just as a high-pitched falsetto pierces the air, followed by a dramatic piano flourish and what sounds like a dying goose trying to hit a high note. I push open the heavy door—and yep. Benji’s standing on the couch with a mic in hand, doing what I think is a sexy lounge-singer impression. Carson’s at the soundboard, head in his hands, mumbling something about how he went to Juilliard for this.

Fletch is in the corner, strumming a guitar with a lazy grin on his face, like he’s just letting the madness wash over him. And Thorin?

Thorin sees Reese—and drops to his knees.

“MY QUEEN,” he bellows, arms spread wide like he’s just returned from war. “YOU’RE BACK.”

Reese blinks. “It’s been five hours.”