Two new members in the FBI (Rewritten)

Chapter 37

Previously on Two new members in the FBI

Jackson's Pov

I was sitting on the floor, back against the bed, Boston asleep in my arms. My head rested against the mattress.

I looked up at him, eyes burning. "You sure?"

He nodded. "I think... I think if something was going to happen, we'd know by now."

I looked down at Boston.

Still my baby.

Still just ours.

I pulled him closer, kissed his forehead, and whispered, "You made it through your first moon."

And maybe I had too.

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Jackson's Pov

August 21, 2024 (Wednesday)

It's been two nights since the full moon, and I still catch myself holding my breath.

I know nothing happened. I know Boston didn't shift, didn't glow, didn't sprout claws or scales or even make a weird face. He slept. Ate. Cried a little. Slept again. A perfectly normal night for a perfectly normal newborn.

And yet... the anxiety hasn't quite faded. It's like my body hasn't gotten the message that the danger passed. Or maybe it's just that I've been living in high alert mode for too long now to come back down.

Now, I'm sitting on our couch in the living room, one leg folded under me, the other foot bouncing Boston's bouncer gently while he kicks his legs with surprising force and makes little huffing sounds like he's already annoyed he can't walk yet.

I can't help but laugh under my breath. "Easy, little man. You've got time. You just figured out your toes last week."

He grunts, kicking again, like that's an insult to his pride.

I take another sip of the cold coffee I've been working on since sunrise. We were up at 3 a.m., 5:30, and again at 7. He's eating more these days. Not cluster-feeding anymore, thank God, but he's gaining weight steadily, alert more often, and I swear he's started tracking Stiles and me with his eyes when we talk.

His focus has this sharpness to it, like he's already trying to figure out the world around him. That scares me sometimes. That his brain might already be working overtime, just like mine used to when I was a kid. Just like Stiles's still does, on days when he disappears into his thoughts for hours.

But maybe that's just parenting — seeing pieces of yourself in this tiny human and hoping they inherit your best parts, not the broken ones.

Boston kicks again. Harder this time. The bouncer jerks a little, and I instinctively reach out to steady it.

"You trying to launch yourself into orbit?" I ask him, grinning.

He makes another frustrated noise and balls his fists like he's gearing up to challenge gravity next. Honestly, it wouldn't surprise me. The kid's determined.

Stiles is upstairs, finally getting a shower. I practically shoved him toward the staircase when Boston went down for his last nap, and he groaned like I was asking him to run a marathon. He's been running on the same fumes I am, trying to keep our little world from toppling over. But at least he got to sleep in until 6:30 this morning, which, in newborn time, is practically noon.

I glance at the baby monitor sitting on the coffee table. It's unnecessary — Boston's right in front of me — but it's habit now. The monitor's always on. The volume's always turned up. Because no matter how close he is, I still have this fear that I'll miss something.