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And yeah, that lump in my throat is back, but I swallow it down with a tight smile.

“I’m trying,” I whisper.

“I know,” she says. “And I’m really damn proud of you.”

The door opens again, and Fletch steps back inside with one twin on each arm like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He’s still shirtless, the waistband of his sweats riding even lower now, baby Kody’s tiny hand clutching a fistful of his blanket.

“Look who wanted Mama,” he says with a slow grin.

Reese smirks and whispers, “And look who’s still not wearing a shirt.”

“Stop looking at him like that,” I mutter.

“I can’t help it. I have eyes.”

“Reese.” Fletch gives her a warning look, but it’s half amused.

She lifts her hands. “Hey, I’m just here for the cookies and the chaos. My job here is done.”

And with a dramatic spin, she’s out the door.

Fletch watches her go, then glances down at the twins, and finally looks at me.

“You good?” he asks, softer now.

I nod.

And then I cross the room and press a kiss to Kody’s downy head before doing the same with Kingston.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “I really, really am.”

Chapter Thirty

FLETCH

There’s a softness to her now.

Not the fragile kind. Not the kind that folds under pressure or needs constant reassurance. It’s a radiant, untouchable softness—the kind that wraps around me like a lazy Sunday morning and refuses to let go. The kind I’ve been starving for.

She hums under her breath as she moves through the kitchen, barefoot, loose sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder, and I swear I could write symphonies about that bare patch of skin. Her smile catches me off guard when she glances over, like it doesn’t hurt anymore to be happy. Like we’re no longer just surviving.

Like we’re living.

And maybe that’s what’s shifted. It’s not just that the twins are thriving or that we’re no longer walking tightropes over ICU fears and 3 a.m. sobs. It’s that Mya—my Mya—is laughing again. Smirking again. Dragging me down the hall by the collar of my shirt when the twins nap, like we’re some couple in a music video with too many hormones and zero shame.

I love it.

Hell, I crave it.

We’re insatiable, and I’m not even pretending to apologize for it.

I can’t keep my hands off her. She can’t stop touching me. It’s like sex opened a floodgate of tension we didn’t know we were drowning in, and now we’re drinking each other like a cure.

And yeah, sure, we’re exhausted. Our sleep comes in four-hour intervals—if we’re lucky—and I’ve mastered the art of changing a diaper with one hand while texting Carson with the other. But between it all, we find each other. Between feedings and burp cloths and diaper pails, we carve out little moments of heat that belong only to us.

Like now.

Her hips sway as she reaches for a fresh burp rag, and I’m already walking toward her before I realize I’ve moved. My fingers slide along the sliver of skin above her waistband. She tenses, then relaxes into my touch like she was waiting for it.