Page 70 of The Last Call Home (The Timberbridge Brothers #5)

“She’s so small.”

I keep saying it, like it’s not already written on every inch of this room—as if Malerick doesn’t have silent tears slipping down the side of his face and into my hair, or like Cassian isn’t sitting cross-legged on the edge of the bed, one hand resting on my knee.

The other cradling the back of her impossibly perfect head like he’s afraid the world might knock too loud and wake her.

I didn’t know my heart could hold this much.

Not after everything. Not after fire and ash and too many nights where all I wanted was silence and maybe just one more minute to feel like myself again.

I didn’t know love could fit in so many shapes—that it could look like one man holding my hand during the contractions and another whispering nonsense at my side just to distract me, both of them crying before I did when she took her first breath.

Amaris.

She’s only been here an hour and already it feels like she’s always been ours—this quiet, blinking little soul pressed to my chest like she knows the rhythm of my heart because she’s been listening to it all along.

She hasn’t cried in a while. She’s warm.

Breathing. I trace one tiny finger from her curled fist to the softest skin I’ve ever touched and I can’t stop crying because how is she real?

And somehow in the middle of it—this hospital bed too small for three adults and a new life, the IV still taped to my arm, Malerick kissing the crown of her head while Cassian hums under his breath like the room is a lullaby—everything falls into place.

Later today, everyone will be here: Mal’s brothers, my sisters-in-law, and the little ones.

Mom and Dad, who I’ve finally been able to let in after almost two years, well, we’re still a work in progress.

He’s a good guy who was born into the wrong family.

Everything he did was to protect us, and he reminds me of Mal, who did so much to protect his brothers.

Mal gently brushes his fingers down Amaris’s tiny back and kisses the top of her head like he can’t help himself, like she’s a miracle he’s still afraid will disappear.

“Thank you,” he whispers, voice thick. “For giving us this precious little girl.”

Cass doesn’t speak right away. He nods once, jaw tight, chest rising like he’s holding back something too big for words. Then he looks down at her—his daughter—and everything softens. Slowly, his gaze lifts to mine.

“She’s everything,” he says hoarsely. “And I’ll spend the rest of my life proving I was meant to be her dad. You gave us her . . . and somehow, you’re all mine.”

It’s almost as if he finally understands what it means to have something to lose—and to love anyway.

A home. A family. A life that is neither borrowed nor temporary, nor tied to a mission brief.

And here we are.

In a hospital bed too small for the three of us but somehow just right. Holding this fierce, sleepy little girl who already owns our hearts. Wrapped in quiet and sunlight and the kind of peace you don’t even realize you’re aching for until it settles right into your chest and whispers, Stay.

We are.

We’re staying.

We’re home.

And today, happy doesn’t feel fragile.

It feels like forever.