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It’s barely sunrise when I wake to the sound of Mya humming in the kitchen. Something soft and syrupy and so damn content it makes my chest ache. I pull a sweatshirt over my head and pad barefoot down the hallway, finding her standing by the counter in that oversized gray sweater she stole from me two weeks ago. Hair piled on top of her head, cheeks flushed with excitement, eyes bright like it’s Christmas morning all over again.

And in a way, it is.

“You ready?” I ask, voice still rough with sleep, but grinning anyway.

Mya spins toward me like she’s been waiting for those words. “Ready?” She lets out a breathless laugh. “Fletch, I’ve been ready since the second they told us they could come home.”

She waves me over to where two brand-new car seats sit on the floor, side by side like little thrones. They’re packed to the brim with tiny winter jackets, soft fleece blankets, matching pacifiers, and enough baby gear to survive an arctic expedition.

“They’ve got hats. Booties. Mittens. Organic swaddles. That weird little stuffed llama your mom sent. And this—” she pulls out a onesie that reads NICU Graduate in bold gold lettering, “—because obviously they had to have something special for their homecoming.”

I chuckle, sweeping a hand through my hair, heart thudding like a drumline. “You thought of everything.”

She shrugs, but there’s a watery smile tugging at her lips. “They’re my boys, Fletch. I’d give them the world if I could.”

God, she says it like it’s nothing. Like she hasn’t just punched me in the throat with every dream I didn’t know I had. I cross the kitchen and wrap my arms around her from behind, pressing my mouth to her shoulder. “They’re our boys.”

The words come out low. Certain. Like a vow I never said out loud but have been living every damn day since the night they were born.

Mya leans back against me, her hands finding mine. “Yeah. Ours.”

We don’t talk for a minute. Just stand there in the early morning light, holding on like maybe the world can tilt a little slower today. Like maybe this time, we’ve finally made it past the storm.

“You wanna drive?” she teases, voice a little too breathy to be casual.

I kiss her temple. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

The NICU looks different today.

Not physically—it’s still the same sterile lighting, soft beeping monitors, and faint scent of hospital-grade lemon—but something’s shifted. Or maybe I’ve shifted. We have. Because today, we don’t walk in holding our breath.

Today, we walk in knowing we get to take them home.

Mya’s practically vibrating beside me, her fingers clutching the handles of the car seats like they’re anchors and lifelines all at once. Her boots squeak on the linoleum, cheeks flushed under her knit beanie, eyes shining like she’s barely holding it together.

And honestly? Same.

Imani meets us at the entrance, clipboard in hand, a huge smile breaking through her usual cool calm. “Guess what, Malone family? You’re cleared.”

I exhale—loud and sharp—like my body’s been holding that moment hostage for weeks.

Mya laughs, a little teary, a lot breathless. “Oh my God. Really?”

Imani nods. “Vitals are stable. Feeding’s consistent. Weight gain’s perfect. You did it. They did it.”

She steps aside to let us in, and I can’t lie—my heart’s already galloping like a damn stampede.

Kingston’s in his incubator, wide-eyed and alert, like he knows something big is happening. Kody is sound asleep beside him, his little fist curled next to his cheek like he’s been dreaming of this day for weeks.

Mya’s hand finds mine, and I grip it tight.

“We’re bringing them home,” she whispers.

“I know.”

She turns toward me slowly, lips trembling with a smile that could break glass. “They get to sleep in their cribs tonight. No machines. No wires. No nurses.”

“No distance,” I add, voice thick. “No glass between us.”