Two new members in the FBI (Rewritten)

Chapter 42

Previously on Two new members in the FBI

Jackson's Pov

We didn't say goodbye. We just sat there for a while, listening to the soft static from the monitor and pretending we weren't five hours apart.

And when Boston stirred again around 8:15 p.m., I picked him up, held him against my chest, and whispered, "Daddy's here."

Because he was.

And so was I.
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Jackson's Pov

September 15, 2024

4:47 a.m.

I didn't need the baby monitor to wake me — I was already halfway conscious, the way I've been since Boston was born, caught in that liminal space between sleep and hyper-awareness. I knew something was shifting before the monitor even cracked to life with soft static and the faint rustle of movement. It was like my body had learned him, memorized his rhythms.

Boston's cries were still small, tired, almost hesitant — not the full-throated wails of discomfort or hunger. More like a test. A check-in. A question.

I sat up slowly, careful not to jostle the bed. Not that it mattered. The space beside me was cold and empty.

Stiles was five hours away.

The weight of that sank in a little more this morning than it had last night. This was it. The first real day. No tag-outs, no "your turn," no other body in the house moving with me. Just me, Boston, and the quiet.

The monitor glowed soft and blue on the nightstand, the tiny waveform flickering with every whimper. I rubbed a hand over my face, rolled my shoulders, and stood.

My body still ached in the morning — not sharp pain anymore, but a kind of deep, hollow fatigue. The kind that lives in your joints and muscles after you've been asked to give more than you ever thought you could. Two months postpartum, and I was still learning the edges of my body all over again.

Boston let out a louder cry as I crossed the room.

"Okay, baby," I murmured. "I'm coming."

I leaned over the crib and met him where he was — fists clenched, face red, eyes screwed shut. He was warm when I lifted him, always warmer than I expected for someone so small. His body curled against mine like we were magnets.

"Morning," I whispered against his forehead. "Missed you too."

His cries slowed to hiccups as I cradled him against my chest, shushing softly and rocking on my heels. The light in the hallway was dim — just enough to see without overstimulating him. It always felt like we were part of some secret world at this hour. Everything was slower. The rest of the world still sleeping while we moved through this quiet ritual like a spell we were casting together.

I carried him to the glider in the nursery, settling down into the cushions as I began to unbutton my shirt one-handed. He was already rooting before I could finish, his mouth brushing clumsily against my chest. I guided him to latch, hissing softly at the sting of initial contact.

"Easy," I breathed. "You're okay."

He suckled greedily, little hands curling and uncurling against my skin. I let my head fall back against the chair, eyes fluttering shut as I exhaled through the discomfort.

It was never exactly easy — not this part. Sometimes it hurt. Sometimes I was too sore, too tired, too raw to sit through the full stretch. But it mattered. To him. To me. To whatever invisible bond we were building, day after day, hour after hour.