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She lays Kingston in his crib, and I do the same with Kody, who makes a little grunting noise in protest before immediately settling in. Mya and I hover over them like we’ve just discovered fire and don’t know what the hell to do with it.

“I feel like if I blink, I’ll miss something,” she says, eyes wide and glassy. “Like I’ll turn around and they’ll be teenagers who hate my taste in music and don’t need me anymore.”

I laugh under my breath. “They’ll always need you.”

She turns to look at me, chin trembling. “I didn’t think we’d get here.”

“I know,” I say. “But we did.”

She sinks back onto her heels and leans into me, and I wrap an arm around her shoulders, grounding her against my side while we both stare at the two little boys sleeping in their brand-new cribs like they’ve always belonged here.

It’s barely past midnight when I hear the first cry.

High-pitched. Sharp. Like a fire alarm packed into six pounds of human.

I jolt upright, disoriented as hell, heart already racing like I’m late for something important. And I guess I am.

Beside me, Mya stirs. “Kody,” she mumbles, voice gravel-thick and sleepy, already reaching for the baby monitor on the nightstand. “That’s Kody.”

I shouldn’t even be surprised she can tell the difference between their cried already.

I throw the covers off and grab a hoodie from the floor, tugging it over my head as I fumble for the baby wrap blanket she left folded on the dresser earlier.

She’s sitting up now, rubbing her eyes. “I’ll come with.”

“I got him,” I say gently. “You rest. You were up all night watching them breathe.”

She doesn’t deny it.

I move fast down the hallway, every floorboard somehow louder in the dark. When I reach the nursery, I find Kody already flailing in his crib like he’s personally offended we let him sleep at all.

“Hey, little guy,” I whisper, scooping him into my arms. “You didn’t get the memo? We don’t cry in this house past midnight. It’s a rule.”

He responds by grabbing a fistful of my hoodie and letting out another squawk.

Mya appears in the doorway two seconds later, wrapped in her robe, hair a sleepy mess, eyes already scanning for Kingston. “He’s still out,” she murmurs, checking the other crib. “I don’t know how, but he is.”

I cradle Kody against my chest, bouncing slightly. “He’s got your chill.”

“And Kody has your drama,” she says around a yawn.

“He’s got your lungs.”

She smiles, crooked and exhausted. “You need a bottle?”

“Already warming,” I nod toward the kitchen where the bottle warmer hums softly.

She leans against the doorframe, watching me rock him. Kody’s cries are already softening, his cheek pressed to my chest, his tiny hand still tangled in my hoodie strings like he’s afraid I might disappear.

I rub his back gently, listening to the quiet room settle again. The shadows, the soft lull of the heater, the hush between heartbeats.

Mya crosses the room and sits on the glider, pulling a warm burp cloth into her lap. “You’re good at this,” she says.

I glance at her. “At what? Sweating through my hoodie and winging it with a seven-pound dictator in footie pajamas?”

“At being a dad,” she says simply.

Something cracks open in me.