Raven’s POV
The clinic is two hours away, in a city large enough to have specialists and small enough to feel anonymous.
Weston drives. Theron sits in the back seat, uncharacteristically quiet, watching the countryside roll past. I sit in the passenger seat with my hands folded over my belly, trying not to think too hard about what we're about to do.
The NIPP test. Non-Invasive Prenatal Paternity. I've researched it obsessively for three days. A simple blood draw from me, cheek swabs from both brothers, and in one to two weeks we'll have an answer.
No risk to the babies. Just science, cold and definitive, telling us what my heart can't figure out.
The waiting room is beige and sterile. I fill out paperwork while Weston stares at a wall and Theron flips through a parenting magazine with forced casualness.
"Did you know babies can recognize their mother's voice in the womb?" he announces. "Also, apparently you're supposed to play them classical music. Makes them smarter."
"Theron," Weston says flatly.
"What? I'm being supportive." He holds up the magazine. "This says Mozart is optimal. We should get a speaker for the studio."
I laugh despite myself. Leave it to Theron to deflect with humor even now.
The test itself is anticlimactic. Blood drawn from my arm. Cheek swabs from both brothers, packaged separately. The nurse explains the process. Results in seven to ten business days.
"We'll call when they're ready. Or we can mail them if you prefer."
"Mail," I say quickly. I don't want to get this news over the phone.
The drive home is quieter. Theron falls asleep in the back seat, his face soft and unguarded. Weston keeps his eyes on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on my knee.
I cover it with my own, threading our fingers together.
"Thank you for being here," I murmur.
"Where else would I be?"
"Running. Hiding. Building walls." I squeeze his hand. "The old Weston had options."
"The old Weston was an idiot." He glances at me, mouth twitching. "The new Weston is trying to be less stupid."
"How's that going?"
"Jury's still out."
The week that follows is the longest of my life.
I throw myself into routine—morning chores, afternoon guitar practice, evening sessions in the studio. The music helps. It always helps. I write a song about waiting. About the space between questions and answers.
Weston surprises me on the third day.
He finds me in the studio, practicing chords, and lingers in the doorway with an expression I can't read.
"Come with me. I want to show you something."
I follow him to the main house, down the hallway, to a door that's always been closed. The spare room. He hesitates with his hand on the knob. Takes a breath. Opens it.
The room has been transformed.
Fresh paint on the walls—soft yellow. Two cribs stand side by side near the window, simple wooden frames he must have built himself. A rocking chair in the corner. A small dresser. Curtains with little horses printed on them.
"Weston." My voice cracks. "When did you—"
"Been working on it at night. After you go to sleep." He shoves his hands in his pockets. "Figured we should be ready. Whatever the test says."
I walk further in. Open a dresser drawer and my breath catches.
Tiny onesies in yellow, green, and white. Miniature socks no bigger than my thumb.
"I got clothes for the first two months. Diapers in the closet. Blankets." He clears his throat. "I might have gone overboard."
I turn to look at him. He's standing in the doorway still, like he's afraid to fully enter. Afraid to claim this future he's building.
"I didn't know if I could do this," he admits quietly. "For a long time, I thought this part of my life was over."
He finally steps inside. Crosses to me.
"But then you showed up. And you made me want things I'd stopped letting myself want. A family. A future. Someone to share this ranch with."
He takes my hands. His palms are rough with sawdust and calluses.
"Elena was my past. A past I'll always honor. But you—" His voice roughens. "You're my future. And I'm done being afraid of it."
His storm-blue eyes hold mine with an intensity that steals my breath.
"I love you, Raven."
The words land between us. Heavy. Real. The first time he's said them.
"I love you," he repeats, stronger now. "Not because you remind me of her. Not because you're carrying children who might be mine. Because you're you. Because you showed up broken and scared and became the bravest person I've ever met."
I can't breathe. Can't speak. Can only stare at this man who's spent four years behind walls, finally standing before me with nothing between us.
"Whatever that test says," he continues. "These babies are going to have a father who shows up. Who stays. Who builds them cribs at two in the morning because he can't sleep from excitement."
He cups my face in his calloused hands.
"And they're going to have a mother who taught their father how to love again."
I kiss him. Soft at first, then deeper. He backs me against the dresser, hands sliding to my hips, my growing belly pressing between us.
When we break apart, I rest my forehead against his.
"Thank you," I whisper. "For letting yourself want this."
"Thank you for making me brave enough to try."
Theron gives me space during the waiting days, but he doesn't disappear. He's there at breakfast with terrible jokes. There at dinner with genuine smiles. There in the moments between, watching me with those honey eyes that see too much.
One evening I find him in the studio, sitting at the piano, playing a melody I don't recognize.
"Didn't know you played the piano also," I say from the doorway.
He startles, hands lifting from the keys. "I don't. Not really. Used to, when I was younger."
"What happened?"
"Life." He shrugs. "The ranch. West falling apart. Didn't seem important anymore."
I cross to sit beside him on the bench. Our shoulders touch.
"Will you play something for me?"
"I'm rusty."
"I don't care."
He hesitates. Then his fingers find the keys again, and a slow, sad melody fills the room. It's beautiful—haunting and hopeful at the same time.
"What's it called?" I ask when he finishes.
"Doesn't have a name." He stares at the keys. "I wrote it for you. After the hospital. When I thought I was going to lose you."
I take his hand. "You haven't lost me."
"Haven't I?" He turns to look at me. No humor now. Just raw, honest pain. "You chose him, Raven. And I'm glad—I am. But that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt."
"Theron—"
"Don't apologize. Don't explain." He shakes his head gently. "I just need you to know I'll always be here. Whatever that test says. I'm not going anywhere."
I hug him. Hold on tight while tears slide down my cheeks.
"I love you," I whisper. "I know it's complicated. But I do."
"I know." His arms tighten around me. "I love you too. That's why I can let you go."
The envelope arrives on day nine.
Plain white. Official-looking. Return address from the clinic.
My hands shake as I carry it to the kitchen. Both brothers are there—Weston at the table, Theron leaning against the counter. They see the envelope. They know.
"Well," Theron says after a long pause. "Moment of truth."
I sit down slowly. Set the envelope on the table. Stare at it like it might explode.
"I'm scared," I admit. "Of what it says. Of how it might change things."
Weston reaches over, covers my hand with his. "It won't change how I feel. I told you that."
"Same," Theron adds quietly. "Whatever's in there, we figure it out. Together."
I look between them—these two brothers who've become my whole world. Who've loved me in different ways but with equal intensity. Who are both willing to be fathers to children that might not share their blood.
"Together," I echo.
Take a breath.
Pick up the envelope.
Tear it open.