Chapter Fifty Nine

Jake.

The evening time crawls in slow, gray, and too quiet, the sun setting. 

I didn’t sleep much. The house felt too alive, every creak and whisper echoing through me like a warning. But it’s not just fear keeping me awake. It’s her. Kyla.

She is here, breathing under the same roof, existing again in the same space I thought she’d left forever.

And now that she’s back, nothing feels real anymore.

She’s in the kitchen when I find her, hair tied up, her hands wrapped around a mug that’s probably long gone cold. The twins’ laughter drifts faintly from somewhere down the hall a sound that hits me right in the chest.

I linger at the doorway for a second, just watching her. She looks different. Softer in some places, stronger in others. Like a woman who’s had to survive, and did.

When she finally looks up, our eyes meet. For a heartbeat, I forget how to breathe.

“I wanted to ask you something,” I say quietly, stepping in.

She nods once, guarded. “What is it?”

I take a breath. “Do you plan on telling them?”

Her brows pull together. “Telling who what?”

“The twins,” I say, forcing the words out before I lose my nerve. “Do you intend on telling them I’m their father?”

Her lips part slightly, but she doesn’t answer right away. She looks down at her coffee like it might give her the words she’s missing.

Finally, she sighs. “Jake, it’s complicated right now, we just came back and they are trying to settle in.”

I almost laugh. “Everything is complicated, Kyla.”

“I know,” she says quickly. “But they are still so young. They have only ever known me. I don’t want to confuse them or scare them. They’ve already had so much change in their little lives, I just”

She trails off, her voice breaking a little.

I study her face. The fear in her eyes is raw not just fear of me, but of what the truth might do to her children. Our children.

“They deserve to know the truth, clearly they need me, they need their father,” I say softly. “They deserve the truth.”

She nods faintly, not arguing, but not agreeing either. “Maybe one day. When things are safer. When I can look them in the eyes and not worry that the world’s still trying to take everything from me.”

I want to push. I want to demand that she tells them now, that I deserve to be known by them. But then I hear it light footsteps, the quick patter of small feet against the floor.

A little voice calls from behind me. “Mommy?”

Kyla looks over my shoulder, her expression softening instantly. “Hey, baby.”

I turn just as the little girl, Chanel steps into the kitchen, holding a picture book in her tiny hands. She’s got the same eyes as Kyla. My chest tightens when I see the way she blinks up at me shyly before focusing back on her mom.

“Can Mr. Jake read me a bedtime story?” she asks in the small, sleepy voice only kids can manage.

Kyla’s surprise flickers for a second, but then she smiles faintly. “Sweetheart, it’s a little late”

Chanel shakes her head stubbornly. “Just one story. Please?”

Before Kyla can answer, the little girl grabs my hand, her tiny fingers wrapping around mine with the kind of trust that undoes me completely.

“Come on,” she says, tugging at me with more strength than I expect. “I already picked the story.”

I glance back at Kyla, who looks torn between warning me and letting it happen. Her lips press together, then she gives a small nod. “Go on,” she murmurs. “She won’t sleep until you do.”

So I let Chanel lead me down the hall a small hand holding mine like it’s something familiar, something right.

Her room is warm and soft, painted in pastel colors with fairy lights draped around the window. There are drawings taped to the wall crayon houses, smiling stick figures, hearts with little names scribbled underneath. One of them says Mommy and Me.

No Daddy.

The sight cuts deep.

“Here!” Chanel says cheerfully, climbing onto the bed and patting the space beside her. “This one’s my favorite.”

She pushes the book into my lap, The Little Prince.

I smile faintly, sitting down beside her. “Good choice.”

She giggles and leans against me like we’ve done this a hundred times. I can feel the weight of her head against my arm, her warmth sinking into me, and for a second, I can’t even open the book. I just stare at her this little girl who doesn’t even know I’m her father, who doesn’t know how much she already owns me.

When I finally start reading, my voice is quieter than usual, lower, softer. The story flows out of me slowly, each word blurring into the next as her eyelids grow heavier.

By the time the prince meets the fox, Chanel is half-asleep, her small fingers curled against my sleeve.

I keep reading anyway.

Not for her, but for me.

Because I need this. I need to remember what love sounds like when it’s simple, pure, unbroken.

I glance at her one last time before closing the book. She’s already gone, her breathing soft and steady, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

Something inside me breaks open.

I reach out, gently brushing a stray curl from her forehead. “Goodnight, sweetheart,” I whisper.

Then I sit there in the dark for a long while, the book still open in my lap, my mind miles away caught between the woman I lost, the lies that buried us, and the tiny heartbeat beside me that ties us all together.

And for the first time in five years, I don’t feel empty.

Just terrified of how much I still have to lose.