Two new members in the FBI (Rewritten)

Chapter 48

Previously on Two new members in the FBI

Jackson's Pov

I closed my eyes. Let myself believe it.

And in the other corner of the room, Boston stirred slightly in his sleep, then settled again—safe, warm, unaware that we were carrying all our ghosts with us, state by state, until we found out whether they still had power over us.

Stiles kissed my shoulder.

"We're almost there," he whispered.

And I believed him.

For now.

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October 2nd, 2024 

Jackson's Pov

We hit the road a little after 8:00 a.m. — not early, not late, just the exact pace this whole strange, slow-burn journey had taken since the second Stiles told me to start packing two weeks ago. Boston was already fed and dressed in his soft forest-green onesie, the one with the little wolf embroidered on the chest that Stiles swore he didn't buy for the symbolism. I didn't press.

He was nine weeks and five days old. Still so small, still so new — and yet already someone I couldn't remember life without.

The hotel in Lupton had been surprisingly quiet through the night. Boston only woke up twice, and even then, it was more grumpy whimpering than full-on cries. Stiles and I moved like we always did now — in sync, unspoken, like a pair of gears clicking together. Feed, burp, change, rock. No fight. No panic. Just muscle memory and bleary smiles passed in the dark.

I was quiet through breakfast. Not out of anger. Not even nerves, really. Just... watching. Taking everything in. Stiles loading the bags, double-checking the car seat. Boston blinking up at the sun like it was the first time he'd seen it.

I knew where we were headed now. I didn't need the GPS to tell me anymore.

We were going home.

Except... it didn't feel like home. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

By 9:00 a.m., we were cruising down I-40 with the windows cracked just enough to let in a breeze. Boston had fallen asleep within the first fifteen minutes, pacifier tucked into one corner of his mouth, fists balled up on either side of his cheeks. His head tilted toward the window like he was dreaming of motion.

Stiles had one hand on the wheel, the other reaching across the console to find mine. He didn't say anything when I didn't grab it back immediately. Just left it there. Waiting. A quiet offer.

I took it eventually.

And I didn't let go.

The desert landscape bled into dry hills, then into signs I recognized — distant, ghost-like things pulled from memories I'd buried years ago. Rest stops we used to joke about on the way to away games. Roadside diners we used to sneak into after curfew. That stupid billboard on Route 23 with the ripped-up wolf face that Scott once swore was a "sign from the universe."

Stiles watched me from the corner of his eye. But he didn't speak unless I did.

We stopped once for gas. Once for coffee. Once so I could nurse Boston while Stiles changed his diaper on the backseat with more finesse than any human has a right to have in a moving car.

By 6:00 p.m., we were close. Too close.

And I wasn't ready.

Boston had been fussier in the car today than usual. Nothing terrible, just more vocal, more restless. I knew the full moon had passed, but something still clung to the air like tension. Like my body hadn't fully reset. Like I'd been waiting to shift the entire trip and never found a safe place to do it.