Two new members in the FBI (Rewritten)

Chapter 47

Previously on Two new members in the FBI

Stiles's Pov

I reached for his hand under the blanket, laced our fingers together, and let my breath fall in sync with his.

Outside, the highway hummed in the distance. Inside, Boston slept, soft and steady.

Tomorrow we'd keep going.

Closer to the destination.

Closer to home — wherever that ended up being.

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Jackson's Pov

I woke up to the soft, rhythmic snuffling of a baby trying to decide if he was going to cry or not. Not quite a whimper, not quite a coo—just a sound filled with baby indecision. Boston.

The hotel room was still dim, heavy curtains drawn against the early light. The air conditioner hummed in the corner, and Stiles's body was warm and solid beside me, one arm draped over my waist, his forehead pressed between my shoulder blades like he'd chased away whatever dreams had been following him.

Boston made the noise again—louder this time. A grunt and a little kick against the side of the bassinet.

I blinked, pushing through the blur of sleep, and turned onto my side to look over the edge. He was awake now, his eyes wide and dark in the low light, one arm flailing against the swaddle. The moment his gaze landed on me, he let out a squeaky breath, and then—just like that—the corners of his mouth tugged up.

My heart did that thing it always did when he smiled. Stopped. Started again. A little too fast.

"Morning, little bean," I whispered.

Beside me, Stiles stirred, muttering something that sounded like, "Why is Arkansas real?"

I snorted, sitting up carefully and reaching into the bassinet to lift Boston out. He was warm and squirmy, cheeks flushed from sleep, and when I held him against my chest, he nuzzled close like he'd been waiting for this exact moment all night.

"You slept for almost seven hours," I murmured to him. "You know that? That's a record."

Stiles groaned behind me. "No jinxing it. Don't speak it into the universe."

I looked back at him, smiling as Boston started to root against my shirt. "You want to grab a bottle or should I nurse him?"

"You're already holding him," Stiles said, voice still muffled in the pillow. "And he's clearly about to eat your collarbone."

I shifted to get more comfortable, adjusting Boston's position as he latched on. His small hands clenched the edge of my shirt, and I exhaled slowly as the familiar ache started up. It wasn't pain—not really. Not anymore. Just a pull, a sensation that was as physical as it was emotional.

Stiles rolled onto his back, one arm thrown over his eyes. "Remind me to get better coffee today."

"Agreed," I muttered. "That sludge from the lobby yesterday was an insult to caffeine."

Boston nursed steadily, his tiny jaw working, the soft sounds grounding me in a way nothing else ever could. He was calmer this morning—more settled. Maybe it was the long stretch of sleep. Or maybe it was just that we were all together again after another long day on the road.

"He's growing," I said quietly, watching the way his body curled naturally into mine. "I swear he feels heavier this morning."

Stiles peeked at us with one eye, his hair sticking up in ten different directions. "You say that every morning."