Chapter 268

Chapter 268
Epilogue Part I

2 years later

Aiden

The house was quiet in the way that only comes after midnight.
Not the kind of silence that feels empty—but the kind that feels cozy and peaceful.

I leaned against the doorway and watched Noah rock our baby in the soft lamplight, his bare feet tucked beneath the chair, his shirt open just enough for our son to sleep against his chest. The lamp turned them both gold—like a painting I never deserved but somehow got to keep.

“You’re staring,” Noah whispered without looking up.

“I know,” I murmured. “I can’t stop.”

He smiled, small and tired and beautiful. “He finally went down.”

“For now,” I said.

Noah glanced at me then, eyes shining. “You wanna hold him?”

“Always.”

I crossed the room slowly, like the floor might crack if I moved too fast. Noah shifted carefully, guiding our son into my arms with a practiced gentleness that still stunned me. The baby stirred, then settled again, warm and real and heavy in the best way.

“Hey,” I whispered. “Hi, little man.”

Noah watched us, tears slipping freely now. He didn’t wipe them away.

“I still can’t believe this is real,” he said softly.

I swallowed. “Me neither.”

I sat on the edge of the bed, cradling our son while Noah curled beside me, his head resting against my shoulder, his eyes filled with the wonder and hope I'd seen a thousand times before.

The first time had been months ago, in a clinic waiting room that smelled like disinfectant and coffee. Two stiff chairs side by side. Paperwork in my lap I’d read twice without absorbing a word.

“You don’t have to be calm,” Noah had said then, squeezing my hand. “You can freak out. I’ll freak out with you.”

I’d stared at the floor. “What if we mess this up?”

Noah hadn’t hesitated. “We will. And then we’ll fix it. Together.”

That was the day we decided—really decided. Not because we were fearless. But because we were done waiting to feel ready.

Later, sitting in another quiet room, the doctor explained options. Genetics. Consent. Timelines.

Afterward, Noah had looked at me and asked softly, “Do you want to?”

Not should we.
Do you want to.

“Yes,” I’d said. And meant every part of it.

Still, saying yes and knowing what yes meant were two different things.

That night, we lay tangled together in bed, the city quiet outside the windows, Noah’s fingers tracing slow, absent circles over my chest.

“You know,” he said after a while, voice thoughtful, “if we do this…I don’t ever want it to feel like one of us is more of a parent than the other.”

I turned onto my side, propping myself up on my elbow. “Same.”

“I don’t want biology to matter,” he continued. “I don’t want anyone to ever think he’s more yours or more mine.”

“He won’t be,” I said immediately. “He’ll be ours.”

Noah nodded, relief softening his expression. “We can both donate. Let it be chance. Or fate. Or whatever.”

I smiled. “I like that.”

Silence settled between us again, comfortable but charged.

“You ever think about timing?” he asked.

“All the time,” I admitted. “You’ve got long days with the team. I’ve got late nights at the club.”

“But not every night,” he countered. “And not every day.”

I considered it. “We could stagger schedules. I could cut back when needed. Do club administration from home. Hale would insist on it anyway.”

Noah huffed. “Hale would probably show up and build the nursery himself.”

“While lecturing us about sleep schedules.”

He laughed, then sobered. “Are you sure you’re ready to give up… us time? Just us?”

I reached for his hand. “The agency said it wouldn’t happen overnight. Two years, maybe more. Plenty of time to be irresponsible, horny idiots before we’re parents.”

Noah smirked. “You say that like you don’t enjoy it.”

“I very much enjoy it.”

He was quiet for a moment, then said softly, “Honestly?”

“Yeah?”

“I’d be ready now.”

Something warm and fierce settled in my chest.

“Me too,” I said. “But I don’t mind waiting if it means we do it right.”

That was how it began.

Paperwork. Medical procedures, candidates.. Conversations that went late into the night. Long talks about values, boundaries, expectations. About respect. About trust. About making sure the woman who would carry our child was never treated like anything less than the miracle she was.

When we finally met her, it didn’t feel dramatic.

It felt…right. She liked us right away and we thought she was perfect.

Then came the waiting.
Weeks that stretched into months. Updates that arrived in careful emails. Hope learned patience the hard way.

I thought I understood anticipation before that.
I didn’t.

And then, weeks later, we found ourselves sitting together in a small clinic room.
That was when everything changed and suddenly became… real.

It was the first ultrasound we all attended together.
I hadn’t known what to expect. I’d told myself to stay detached. Careful...
That lasted exactly three seconds.
When the heartbeat filled the room, something broke open inside me.

“Oh,” Noah had whispered, tears already streaming. “Oh, my God.”

I hadn’t spoken at all. I couldn’t. I’d just stood there, my hand locked around his, chest tight, eyes burning.

The nurse had smiled knowingly and handed me tissues.

“First-time dads?” she’d asked.

Noah had laughed through tears. “Is it that obvious?”

I blinked, pulled back to the present by a tiny breath against my chest.

Our son shifted, one small hand curling into my shirt.

Noah leaned his head against my shoulder. “You okay?”

I nodded slowly. “Just…thinking.”

He smiled. “Dangerous.”

Another memory in our path to this moment surfaced—paint-splattered floors, open windows, Noah on a ladder arguing with me about whether the stars on the ceiling were crooked on purpose.

“They’re abstract,” I’d insisted.

“They look drunk.”

“They’re expressive.”

He’d flicked paint at me, and I’d kissed him until we forgot what we were arguing about.

Twenty shopping trips later, three sets of warm fairy lights, and five designing attempts, the nursery had finally been ready. I chuckled a little…

But no memory could ever top the night our son was born. That was a miracle that would forever live in my mind—not sharp, but deep.

The room, dim. Noah gripping my hand so tightly my fingers went numb.

“I’m scared,” he’d whispered.

“I’m right here,” I’d said. Over and over. Like a prayer.

When they placed our son in his arms, Noah had sobbed openly.
And I had never felt more certain of anything in my life.

We named our child Joseph Mercer Blake. Noah had insisted my last name go first, and I had never known a greater pride—or a greater honor.

Now, in the hush of our bedroom, I looked down at the child breathing steadily in my embrace and felt so overwhelmed by love that my heart actually ached.

Noah brushed his fingers over our son’s back, slow and reverent. “Our, baby.”

I swallowed past the tightness in my throat. “Ours.”

Noah looked at me then—really looked—and his voice broke.
“He’s home.”

I leaned in, pressing my forehead to Noah’s, our breaths mingling in the soft light.
“Yes,” I said quietly. “We all are.”

And for the first time in my life, I knew—without doubt, without fear—that happiness didn’t live somewhere ahead of us.

It was right here.