Two new members in the FBI (Rewritten)

Chapter 39

Previously on Two new members in the FBI

Jackson's Pov

The weight of Stiles's hand brushing against mine under the blanket.

The feeling that, no matter how much the world shifted, I wouldn't have to face it alone.

At 5:00 p.m., Boston let out a soft cry from the bassinet, signaling the start of another new stretch of our day — another feed, another change, another series of tiny miracles stacked on top of each other.

Stiles and I sat up at the same time, smiling at each other like we'd been caught thinking the same thought.

"Back to it," Stiles said, yawning.

"Wouldn't have it any other way," I murmured, swinging my legs out of bed and heading toward our son.

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Jackson's Pov

August 29, 2024

Boston is 6 weeks old today.

I don't know why that number feels so significant, but it does. Six weeks. A month and a half. It's still such a short time in the grand scheme of things, but when you've been running on broken sleep, quiet terror, and this overwhelming kind of love that wraps itself around your ribs and squeezes... it feels like a lifetime.

Boston is asleep in the sling against my chest as I stand at the window, watching the sky shift from gray to gold. It's early, not even seven yet. The house is still mostly dark except for the thin slant of morning light spilling through the blinds, catching dust motes in its glow. I haven't turned on any lights — didn't want to disturb the calm.

His breathing is slow and warm against me. I've grown so used to that little rhythm — the steady inhale and exhale of a baby whose lungs weren't ready when he came into the world, but who now breathes like he's got everything under control.

Six weeks ago, I didn't know if he'd cry when he came out. I didn't know if he'd breathe. Now, he makes this soft huffing sound when he's annoyed, kicks like he's swimming, and sometimes smiles in his sleep. Those little moments have stitched themselves into my memory in a way nothing else ever has.

I'm still healing too — physically, emotionally. Some days are good. Some aren't. I still feel strange in my body. Not broken, just unfamiliar. There's softness where there was once muscle, and aches that flare at the oddest times. I catch myself examining my scar in the mirror more often than I care to admit. I run my fingers across the raised edge and think about everything it represents. Pain. Strength. Rebirth.

Sometimes I wonder if my hybrid side — the wolf and the Kanima — will ever settle. They've been quiet lately, like they know this isn't the time to test me. But I can feel them just under the surface, watching. Waiting. Not in a threatening way. More like... protectiveness. Like they're on guard with me. For him.

Boston shifts slightly in the sling, and I place a gentle hand on his back. He's warm, solid. Real. I still have moments where I look at him and think, You're mine? You came from me? And the answer, every time, is yes. Yes, he's mine. Ours.

Stiles is still asleep upstairs. I heard him roll over around five, mumble something that sounded vaguely like "diaper apocalypse," and then go still again. He's been good about taking the late-night feedings when I needed sleep. We trade off, keep each other sane. I honestly don't know how we're doing it — this balance between exhaustion and grace — but we are.