Page 46 of Shared by my Ex’s Best Friends (Twisted Desires #2)

Chapter forty-five

EPILOGUE: MAYA—ONE YEAR LATER

I’ve got everything I never knew I could ask for.

My baby girl, soft and squishy and perfect, and my three loves, imperfect and wonderful, each of them the heartbeat to a life that once felt out of reach.

And this messy, magical existence we’ve built together, where love doesn’t follow the rules and happiness isn’t neat and tidy, but it’s real and full and ours.

The weekend my best friend comes to visit, the spring air is warm enough that we’ve got the windows cracked open.

The scent of lilacs drifts through the house, mingling with baby lotion and coffee and the faint sweetness of banana bread cooling on the counter. Sunlight slants through the gauzy curtains in the front room, catching the dust motes in a lazy, golden dance.

A lullaby hums softly from a Bluetooth speaker tucked beside a stack of board books, and the baby gurgles contentedly in my arms, tiny fingers curled around the strap of my tank top.

The screen door creaks, its hinges protesting like they always do. Ava stands frozen in the doorway with her hair in a travel-mussed bun, sunglasses perched on her head, a tote bag digging into her shoulder and something crinkly and wrapped in pastel tissue paper clutched awkwardly in her hands.

She looks at me and I watch her expression crumple.

“Oh my god,” she breathes, voice catching as her eyes fill.

In three quick steps, the bag thuds to the floor and she’s in front of me, arms around my shoulders, pressing the baby gently between us.

“You’re so happy. Like… glowing, I’ve-figured-life-out happy.”

She says it like she’s stunned. Like she can’t believe it’s real. Like she’s just stepped into a dream version of me she never thought she’d actually meet.

I laugh through my own tears, burying my face in her shoulder as the baby lets out a soft coo between us.

“I really am,” I say into her hair, holding her just as tightly. “I really, really am.”

A soft thud sounds behind us, footsteps padding barefoot across the hardwood. Jake passes through the hallway, tousle-haired and grinning in one of his worn Henleys, a muslin burp cloth tossed casually over his shoulder.

He leans in and brushes a kiss to my temple in passing.

“Hey, Ava,” he says easily, squeezing her shoulder before heading toward the kitchen. “There’s coffee in there. French press. Ethan’s been our personal barista lately.”

Ava snorts, brushing tears off her cheeks. “God, even he is charming now.”

From the kitchen, Ethan’s voice drifts out, wry and amused. “Hey! I’ve always been charming.”

There’s a dry laugh from the living room where Liam’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, assembling some fancy new toy for the baby.

“She’s not wrong,” Liam says. “Though Ethan does hide his charm under layers of sarcasm and caffeine addiction.”

“Layers?” Ethan echoes, stepping into the archway with a mug in each hand. “I’m practically a tiramisu.”

Lydia squeals, flinging her arms and catching a fistful of my shirt, her face lit up like she just heard the funniest joke in the world.

Ava watches all of it—me, barefoot and a little sticky with spit-up; Jake stirring cream into a mug behind her; Ethan working the French press with a furrowed brow; Liam humming softly as he tries to put a bouncer together—and presses her hand to her heart.

“You’re like…” She shakes her head. “You’re the last scene of a rom-com. Like, the last scene. The one with the montage and the slow-motion kiss and the baby giggle that cues the end credits.”

Jake reappears, settling onto the couch with a stretch and a sigh.

“There was a montage,” he says seriously. “But it mostly involved diaper explosions and the time Ethan accidentally locked himself in the pantry.”

“I was looking for fruit snacks,” Ethan says, sitting beside him. “Don’t act like you haven’t done worse.”

Ava blinks. “You locked yourself in the—”

“We do not have time for that story,” Liam interrupts, deadpan, as the baby lets out a hiccupy laugh.

Ava turns to me, eyes shining.

“How is this your life?” she whispers. “How did you get here?”

I exhale slowly, and my heart swells with a fierce, full ache.

“By falling in love,” I say softly. “And then doing the scary, hard, messy thing of staying in love. With all of them. With this life. With myself.”

She reaches out and squeezes my hand. “You deserve all of it.”

“I know,” I whisper back, and this time, I mean it.

***

Later, we sit on the back porch, weathered wood warm beneath our bare feet, still holding onto the heat of the sun. We strung up café lights weeks ago and forgot to take them down, so they flicker to life now as dusk deepens.

Mugs of lukewarm coffee rest precariously on the railing beside us, and a plate of store-bought cookies teeters on the edge of a too-small side table that wobbles every time someone laughs too hard.

Crickets have started their nightly chorus, and somewhere out in the field, a lone owl hoots into the coming dark.

The air smells like wild grass and lavender baby lotion, the kind we lather on every night without fail, even when we’re too tired to think straight.

Ava sits cross-legged beside me in one of the old porch chairs, a blanket draped over both of our knees even though it’s barely cool.

We’re laughing, full-belly and teary-eyed, over some half-remembered story involving Jake and a diaper disaster that included a lost sock, a cold bottle, and one truly betrayed expression.

“Oh my god,” she gasps between giggles, wiping her eyes. “I still can’t believe he thought talcum powder was the same as diaper cream.”

I lean into her shoulder, wheezing from laughing so hard. “He read the label after he already dusted half the baby. Liam walked in and just backed right out like he’d walked into a crime scene!”

We dissolve into another fit of laughter, breathless and wheezing, until our stomachs hurt and our cheeks are sore. When the wave of it passes, Ava settles back and nudges my arm with a grin.

“You didn’t have to choose,” she says quietly. Her eyebrow lifts. “Told you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I murmur, swiping at the corner of my eye again. “You were right.”

She shrugs, proud. “I usually am.”

***

Some nights, I wake to the soft sound of Liam in the nursery, his voice low and unhurried as he sings lullabies just slightly off-key. I listen from the hallway, not wanting to interrupt the magic of it.

Other mornings, I tiptoe in to find Ethan passed out in the rocking chair, our daughter curled against his chest, her tiny mouth open in sleep, and both of them snoring like it’s a competition.

Jake curses about bottle prep at 3 a.m., every time, but he still does it. Kisses my forehead, fumbles the kitchen light on, and mutters half-asleep poetry about nipples and formula ratios while I pretend not to laugh.

We kiss over warm bottles and burp cloths. We steal affection in the quiet, unnoticed pockets of the day. Jake’s hand brushing mine at the sink, Ethan drawing lazy shapes on my back while we fold laundry, Liam pressing a kiss to my temple as I bounce her in my arms.

We hold hands on stroller walks, trade places in the shower while lullabies echo from someone’s phone speaker, whisper “I love you” when we pass each other in the hallway like it’s as natural as breathing.

Tonight, once Lydia finally drifts into a deep sleep and the house hushes to its bones, I curl up on the couch with all three of them. Ava has already gone to bed, exhausted from a day of travel.

I’m nestled between Ethan and Jake. Ethan’s arm rests over my shoulders, his fingers grazing the back of my neck in slow, absent-minded strokes. Jake’s leg presses against mine, his palm tracing lazy circles against my thigh.

Liam sits on the floor in front of us, his back to the couch, his legs stretched out. One of my feet rests in his lap, and he rubs soft, slow circles into the arch with his thumb, the motion hypnotic. His eyes are half-lidded, relaxed in a way I rarely see during the day.

The baby monitor glows blue on the end table. From it, the quiet sound of Lydia’s breathing plays. A rhythmic sigh that’s more soothing than any white noise machine money could buy.

Her scent clings to me, baby lotion, milk, and something sweet I can’t name. I don’t even care that my shirt has a spit-up stain on the shoulder. I’m too full. Too content.

Outside, the world is silent. The kind of silence that’s thick, sacred. Not empty, but full of everything unsaid. The old house groans now and again, settling around us like it’s part of the conversation. Like it’s listening.

It begins with a brush of fingers against mine. So light I could almost imagine it. But I don’t. I know that touch. The way it lingers.

Then a warm hand slides across my thigh, claiming space. Familiar. Certain.

Jake, of course. His thumb presses gently into the inside of my leg like he’s remembering me, reacquainting himself with every dip and curve.

A kiss lands on my bare shoulder. The fabric of my shirt has slipped, and Ethan finds the exposed skin with his lips. I exhale, my breath catching just a little.

Then it shifts.

Like someone turned up the volume on the air. Like heat starts to hum beneath our skin. Charged. Expectant.

This is how it always starts—with something small. A whisper. A glance. A hand that lingers just long enough to say, we haven’t forgotten.

Jake moves first, leaning in to kiss the corner of my mouth. It’s slow, but I turn into it, parting my lips in answer. He groans softly, his hand moving to cradle the back of my neck as the kiss deepens.

There’s hunger in it now. The kind that’s been building beneath layers of lullabies and late-night bottle feeds.

I taste him. Sweet, like cookies and sleep and something that’s always been just his.

Ethan shifts closer, burying his nose in the crook of my neck, inhaling deeply before pressing a kiss just below my ear. His fingers slip beneath my shirt, warm against my ribs, spreading wide like he’s trying to hold all of me at once.