Page 149

“They get it from their father.” She gives me a smug look and hops off the island, wincing as her bare feet hit the floor. “Oh god, I’m sore. Why am I sore?”

I smirk, bending to grab her panties from the floor and handing them over like a gentleman. “Maybe don’t yell shut up and fuck me if you want to walk normally after.”

“I regret nothing.”

We move on instinct—her scooping up a discarded baby sock from under a barstool, me dragging my jeans back into place one-handed while grabbing a warm bottle off the counter. The twins are crying in tandem now, their tiny voices bouncing off the walls like they’ve formed some kind of newborn metal band.

Mya starts for the nursery, calling over her shoulder, “Round three after bedtime?”

I toss her a grin that’s already feral. “You mean round four?”

She laughs. “God help us.”

I follow her down the hall, bottle in hand and love in my lungs, thinking maybe this is what happy looks like—half-dressed, wildly in love, and late to every single nap schedule.

And yeah.

I regret nothing too.

“Only if you take the loud one,” Mya grins, already halfway down the hall with her sweatshirt bunched in one hand and that sleepy, satisfied glow still clinging to her skin.

I grab the baby monitor and follow her, shaking my head like I’m not low-key obsessed with the way she moves, the way she doesn’t even pause before flipping on the nursery light and gliding toward Kody’s crib like she’s been doing this her whole damn life.

We don’t speak. We don’t need to.

I reach for Kingston while she scoops up Kody, both boys red-faced and furious with hunger like we haven’t just fed them a thousand times today. The moment I lay him on the changing table, I catch a whiff of what awaits.

“Oh no.”

Mya laughs—full and unbothered. “Let me guess—yours too?”

“Code brown,” I confirm grimly.

“We’ve been double-bombed.”

“Why are they always in sync?” I mutter, popping open a clean diaper with the resigned flair of a man who’s been humbled by tiny butts.

“They’re twins, Fletch. Sync is in their DNA.”

We get to work without missing a beat—wipes flying, diapers swapped, onesies peeled off with the dexterity of Olympic gymnasts who’ve trained for this exact moment. She finishes just before I do and raises her hand for a high five.

I smack it with a grin. “We should be on a parenting reality show.”

“Only if it’s aired after midnight and half the footage is us half-naked and arguing about who left the burp cloth in the fridge.”

“Or sneaking sex in the kitchen between bottle feeds.”

“Exactly.” She kisses the top of Kody’s head and then passes him off to me while she heads into the kitchen to prep bottles.

I follow with Kingston bundled in my arms, his cries tapering off as soon as he feels movement. By the time I settle him into his rocker, Mya’s already got two warm bottles lined up like clockwork, shaking them with one hand while popping the kettle off the warmer with the other.

“God, look at us,” I say, taking one bottle and handing it off like we’re running a relay. “Six weeks ago, we were googling how to hold them without breaking something.”

She snorts. “Now we’re googling if formula can cause gas or if the gas is just revenge.”

I settle onto the couch with Kingston in my lap, the bottle secure in his tiny mouth. Mya does the same with Kody beside me, her thigh pressed to mine.

And just like that, we fall into silence.