Two new members in the FBI (Rewritten)

Chapter 45

Previously on Two new members in the FBI

Jackson's Pov

When I came back out, Boston was still asleep in Stiles's arms. Stiles looked up at me, eyes soft.

"We're gonna be okay," he said.

I sat beside him again, exhaling deeply, hand resting on both their legs.

"Yeah," I said, voice quiet. "We are."

And for the first time all day, the house felt still. Peaceful.

Ready for whatever came next.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jackson's Pov

Boston stayed asleep longer than either of us expected.

It was just past 8:15 p.m., and the house was finally quiet. The kind of quiet that comes after a storm—fragile and hushed, like even the walls were catching their breath. Stiles hadn't moved from the couch, and Boston was still curled into his chest, soft breaths puffing gently against his shirt.

I stood at the window, just far enough from the curtains to see the edge of the rising moon. It was full now—bright and heavy and low in the sky, casting a silver sheen over the front lawn. My skin itched faintly with the echo of it, the pull I'd lived with for years. I wasn't shifting tonight, but my body remembered how to brace for it, like a phantom ache.

My hybrid senses were tuned high—more protective than feral. I could hear the blood flow in the house, the trees rustling down the block, the low hum of the monitor we'd left in the bassinet in case Boston ended up back in it later. But it was his heartbeat that anchored me—slow, steady, even. The way it should be.

"He's out," Stiles said softly from behind me. "Like completely."

I turned to look at them. Boston was slack in his arms now, one fist curled near his cheek, mouth slightly open. Stiles was watching him with that expression again—the one that was equal parts wonder and exhaustion. His fingers moved gently over the back of Boston's onesie in slow, grounding strokes.

I crossed the room and sank onto the couch next to him. "How are you holding up?"

Stiles gave me a small, tired smile. "I've been better. But I've definitely been worse."

We sat in silence for a long moment. Not the awkward kind—just the kind you don't want to break.

"I hate seeing him like that," I said eventually, my voice barely above a whisper. "So mad and scared and not knowing why."

"He wasn't alone," Stiles said quietly. "That's what matters. We didn't leave him to figure it out on his own."

"Still. He's only seven weeks old."

Stiles shifted slightly, brushing Boston's hair back gently. "And he's already strong. He felt it. Fought through it. He's still figuring everything out, but he's safe."

That word—safe—stuck with me.

Safe.

I'd spent years never feeling it. Years trying to control what I was so I wouldn't hurt people. Years learning the difference between the human and the monster inside me.

But Boston? He had us. He had this.

We'd already made it further than I ever thought we could.

Stiles glanced at the time on his phone. "Think we should try to move him to the bassinet?"

I watched Boston's face—still peaceful, his body heavy with sleep.