Two new members in the FBI (Rewritten)

Chapter 35

Previously on Two new members in the FBI

Jackson's Pov

I shook my head, smiling slightly as he climbed back in beside me. "You're amazing, you know that?"

Stiles smirked. "Yeah, but I like hearing you say it."

I rolled my eyes, shoving at his shoulder lightly. He laughed, pulling me against him again, letting me rest my head against his chest.

I let out a slow breath, feeling something settle inside me.

I still had a long way to go. I still had the weight of postpartum depression lingering in the back of my mind, still had moments where I felt like I was barely keeping it together. But for the first time in weeks, I felt like I wasn't drowning.

I had Stiles. I had Boston.

I had a family.

And maybe—just maybe—that was enough to keep me going.

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Jackson's Pov

August 18th, 2024

I woke up to the sound of Boston fussing, his soft cries gradually pulling me from sleep. My body felt heavy, my muscles aching in ways they never had before. Three weeks postpartum, and everything still hurt—my back, my legs, even my arms from holding Boston so much. But it wasn't just the physical exhaustion that weighed on me. It was the mental toll, the constant hum of anxiety that never fully went away.

Beside me, Stiles let out a quiet groan, shifting slightly before forcing his eyes open.

"I got him," I murmured, already pushing myself up, ignoring the stiffness in my body.

"You sure?" Stiles asked, his voice still rough with sleep.

"Yeah."

He looked like he wanted to argue, but he let out a sigh and nodded, rolling onto his back while I carefully slipped out of bed.

The room was dim, the first traces of dawn barely peeking through the curtains. I made my way to the crib, where Boston was kicking his little legs, his face scrunched up in frustration. His cries weren't full-on wails yet, but I knew if I didn't move fast, we'd get there.

"Shh, buddy," I murmured, reaching down and carefully lifting him into my arms. His tiny body was warm against my chest, his whimpers quieting slightly as I rubbed slow circles on his back.

I had read somewhere that babies weren't really capable of manipulating their parents at this age—that every cry meant something, whether it was hunger, discomfort, or just needing to be close. But sometimes, I swore Boston just wanted to be held. And honestly? I was okay with that.

I sat down in the rocking chair, adjusting him slightly against me. "You hungry?" I whispered, already knowing the answer.

Boston made a soft noise in response, his tiny fingers curling against my shirt.

I shifted, getting him into the right position, guiding him to nurse. He latched quickly—something that still surprised me. When we first got home from the hospital, it had been a struggle. Some nights, I'd spent hours trying to get him to latch properly, frustration bubbling up in my chest until I had to blink back tears.

But we were getting better at this. I was getting better at this.

Stiles sat up slowly, rubbing his face. "How's he doing?"