Page 172 of Stuck with my Mountain Daddies

I stepped into her new room, just to be near it for a minute. The desk lamp was still on, casting a soft glow across the space. A half-written post glowed on her laptop.

I didn’t read it. Didn’t need to.

This was her now.

And somehow, impossibly, we were part of the story she chose to tell.

Epilogue

RILEY

Five months later…

If I’d had any doubts about how chaotic life with twins would be, they were thoroughly destroyed the moment both babies screamed in unison… right after I sneezed, mid-diaper change, while Asher dropped a bottle and Beckett stepped in baby spit up for the third time in an hour.

Motherhood: 1. Wolfe family: 0.

But let me back up a little.

The birth itself was… well, it was a blur of sterile lights, beeping machines, contractions that felt like medieval torture, and Garrett nearly getting kicked in the face when I said, “Do not touch me,” and he tried to rub my back anyway.

To his credit, he took it like a champ. He stood there with his big, callused hand braced on my shoulder, jaw tight, eyes darker than I’d ever seen them, while the nurse coached me through it.

Asher made wildly inappropriate jokes the entire time, until the first baby cried. Then he went dead silent. Mouth open. Eyes full.

And Beckett?

Beckett didn’t say a word. He held my hand in both of his and didn’t let go. Not once.

We named them Wren Wolfe and Rowan Wolfe.

Wren came out first, fists in the air like she was ready to square up with the doctor. A full head of dark, wavy hair—Asher’s, no doubt—and lungs that could’ve shattered glass.

Her eyes were the color of storm clouds rolling in over the mountain ridge, sharp and unafraid. She was going to be trouble. I could feel it.

There was a little dimple in her chin that only showed when she cried, which was often and dramatically.

And Rowan followed minutes later, quieter, wide-eyed, holding onto my finger like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. His hair was lighter, chestnut brown with a hint of a golden cast when the sun hit it just right, and his eyes… those were Beckett’s.

Warm and deep and steady, the kind of eyes that looked like they’d seen everything and still chose softness. He rarely cried, he watched everything like he was trying to make sense of the world before making his next move.

The first week back at the cabin was surviving a slow-moving hurricane. Beautiful, emotional, and slightly traumatic.

Garrett tried to run it as a military operation. He printed schedules. Laminated them. Assigned feeding shifts and diaper duty like it was a company takeover.

“Babies are creatures of rhythm,” he insisted, holding a whiteboard and a bottle at the same time like a sleep-deprived drill sergeant. “Structure helps them thrive.”

Except babies didn’t give a shit about structure. Wren spat up on his flannel while he was mid-sentence. I’ve never laughed so hard in my life.

Beckett handled the crying better than anyone. He’d just scoop one of them up, lay them against his chest, and hum something low and raspy that settled them instantly.

But he looked permanently haunted by the idea of hurting them.

“She’s too small,” he whispered once, cradling Wren like she was made of spun glass. “I’m gonna break her.”

“You literally throw logs over your shoulder for fun,” I told him, wiping spit-up off his sleeve. “You’re not going to break her.”

Asher, on the other hand, became the human baby monitor. Every peep had him springing into action like a caffeinated golden retriever.

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