Two new members in the FBI (Rewritten)

Chapter 56

Previously on Two new members in the FBI

Noah's smile broadens into something unmistakably genuine.

"I'd like that."

So would I.

For the first time in a long while, the future no longer feels like a place we have to chase.

It feels like something we're already beginning to build, one ordinary morning at a time, around a kitchen table that no longer seats just one person.

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Jackson's Pov

Breakfast lingers long after the food itself has stopped being the focus.

Neither of us makes any move to clear the table once we're finished eating. There isn't any particular reason to stay where we are, but there isn't one to leave either. The house has settled into a rare, uninterrupted quiet, the kind that feels almost fragile after the pace of the last few months. Sunlight continues to brighten the kitchen, spilling across the hardwood floors and catching the steam still curling lazily from our coffee mugs. Somewhere deeper in the house, the monitor rests on the counter between us, its screen quietly displaying the small figure asleep in the playpen.

Without thinking about it, my eyes drift toward it again.

Boston hasn't moved beyond the subtle shifts that come naturally with sleep. One arm remains stretched over his head, his tiny fingers opening and closing every so often before relaxing again. Even through the small screen, I can make out the steady rise and fall of his chest, and the sight eases something in me that I hadn't realized had tightened.

Noah notices the direction of my attention before I do.

"You've looked over there at least a dozen times since we sat down," he says with an amused smile, wrapping both hands around his coffee mug. "Not that I'm counting."

A sheepish smile crosses my face.

"I know."

"You don't have to convince me you know," he replies. "You're still going to keep doing it."

"I probably am."

His smile widens just enough to deepen the lines at the corners of his eyes, carrying with it the quiet understanding of someone who remembers exactly what this stage of parenthood feels like.

"Most parents do."

I study him for a moment, trying to picture the version of Noah he rarely talks about anymore. To me, he'd always been the sheriff who somehow balanced patience with dry sarcasm, the father who had long since figured out how to navigate life with Stiles. It takes a conscious effort to imagine him decades earlier, standing over a crib with the same uncertainty I feel now.

"Were you like this?" I ask. "With Stiles?"

He doesn't hesitate.

"Worse."

That answer surprises a laugh out of me.

"Worse?"

"Oh, much worse."

He leans back in his chair, his gaze drifting briefly toward the front window as memories settle across his expression.

"When he was first born, I don't think I slept through a single night for weeks. Every little sound had me out of bed before I was fully awake." He lets out a quiet chuckle at the memory. "The funny part was that the silence worried me even more than the crying. If he was making noise, I knew exactly where he was and what he needed. When everything got too quiet..." He shakes his head, smiling to himself. "I'd end up standing over the crib making sure he was still breathing."