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It was late.

One of those rare still nights on the ranch when everything feels suspended—no wind, no horses stirring in the paddocks, just the hum of the fridge and the soft creak of the porch swing beneath us.

Reese sat beside me, legs tucked under her, her head resting against the worn wooden slats like she belonged to the silence. The sky stretched out in front of us, endless and velvet-black, and the only light came from the soft halo of the porch bulb and the flicker of stars above the barn roof.

I had a blanket around my shoulders. My body still ached in ways I didn’t always understand—muscles that hadn’t moved in months, skin that felt too thin for the air—but my head had finally stopped spinning. Mostly.

She handed me a cup of tea and didn’t say anything for a long time.

Just sat with me.

Just me.

And that’s always been her way. Reese doesn’t press. She doesn’t pry. She just waits. For words. For breath. For whatever I have to give.

But that night… she spoke first.

“We’ve been trying.”

I blinked, looking over at her.

“For a baby,” she clarified, gaze still fixed on the horizon. “Since you got home from the hospital. Thorin and I… we talked about it before you went in. But after, it just felt… clearer.”

“Clearer?” I echoed.

She nodded, her smile soft and a little sad. “You almost died, Mya. You did, in every way that counts. And then you came back. You came back and held your boys and started moving forward again like nothing could stop you. And I guess I looked at all of it and thought… what are we waiting for?”

My throat went tight. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

She shrugged. “I didn’t want to jinx it. I didn’t want anyone hoping for me. Or… expecting.”

She turned to face me then, her eyes shining in the low light.

“I just wanted to want it for myself. Quietly. Fiercely.”

I nodded, fingers tightening around the mug in my hands. “I would’ve hoped for you.”

“I know,” she whispered. “That’s why I didn’t say it until now.”

And she reached for my hand.

And we sat there, two women carrying different kinds of grief and hope, linked by something bigger than either of us could name.

The memory hits like a wave I don’t see coming.

That night on the porch. The tea gone cold between our hands. The quiet confession I didn’t understand the weight of—We’ve been trying. The soft curve of her smile. The way she’d held that hope like something sacred. Fragile. Hers.

And now I’m here.

Staring at a set of double doors like they might open and take it all back.

“Please,” I whisper, not sure who I’m talking to. God. Fate. The void.

Fletch squeezes my hand tighter, one arm around my shoulder, the twins sleeping obliviously in the stroller beside us. Benji paces. Carson hasn’t stopped bouncing his leg. Eli hasn’t said a word since we arrived, just stares down the hallway with fists clenched like if he stays angry enough, he can fix this with rage alone.

Then the doors swing open.

And the doctor steps out.