Two new members in the FBI (Rewritten)

Chapter 40

Previously on Two new members in the FBI

Stiles's Pov

He murmured something I didn't catch and drifted off again, our hands still laced together.

I stared at the ceiling for a long while, listening to the steady sounds of my family breathing around me — Jackson's soft and deep, Boston's lighter, faster, rhythmic.

We were safe.

We were healing.

We were growing.

And somewhere, in the quietest part of me, I started to believe that we were going to be okay. All three of us.

No matter what came next.

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Jackson's Pov

 September 2nd, 2024

There's a strange stillness to early September mornings. The kind where the air hasn't quite figured out if it wants to be summer or fall, and everything feels suspended in that quiet in-between. I'm standing barefoot in the kitchen, the hem of my pajama pants brushing the tops of my feet, Boston cradled securely in one arm while the other flips the switch on the coffee maker. The machine sputters to life with a low groan, steam rising in soft curls.

It's 6:17 a.m.

Boston is wide awake, of course.

He's been in that weird newborn pattern where he sleeps for long stretches one night, then barely two hours at a time the next. Last night was one of those two-hour nights. Stiles and I rotated, blurry-eyed and wordless, passing him back and forth like a sleepy, delicate relay baton.

I don't mind the exhaustion anymore. Or rather—I've learned to live with it. It's less like being drained now, and more like my body has recalibrated to operate on partial battery. Half-charged, always humming, always aware.

Boston squirms a little in my arms, his tiny hands flailing outward before they settle against my chest. His eyes are open, alert, dark blue like the sky before a storm. He looks up at me like I'm the only thing anchoring him to this unfamiliar planet. Maybe I am.

"Morning, buddy," I whisper.

He lets out a coo that sounds suspiciously like a complaint.

I rock him gently side to side. The coffee finishes brewing, the smell thick and comforting. I pour a cup one-handed, balancing Boston with practiced ease. Then I make my way to the living room where the morning light is just beginning to filter through the windows.

Stiles is still asleep upstairs. He took the last shift, somewhere around 3:30. I told him I'd cover the rest of the morning, and he barely got the words "thank you" out before collapsing face-first into the pillows.

I settle onto the couch, bringing Boston down with me, nestling him into the crook of my arm. He seems content to stare at nothing in particular—maybe the ceiling fan, maybe just the shape of light. I sip my coffee in silence.

Almost 7 weeks old

That's how long Boston has been in the world.

And I don't think I've fully processed it yet.

There are moments—quiet, fleeting ones—where I still feel like I'm standing in the NICU, my heart somewhere in my throat, waiting to hear if he was going to breathe on his own. Waiting to know if I would get to be his father outside of a hospital room. Those memories haven't faded. They're just layered now, buried under diapers and pacifiers and midnight feeds and the soft, heavy weight of my son asleep on my chest.