The fire crackled softly in the backyard pit, casting golden shadows over the worn stones of the patio. It was one of those rare evenings when the children were all asleep by eight, the women were inside—Ava nursing Maeve and June singing Clara to sleep—and the air carried a kind of tired peace only young parents could recognize.
Jamie handed Hank a bottle of local craft beer and clinked his own gently against it. Neither man said anything at first. They didn't need to. The stillness was a language of its own.
After a few minutes, Jamie leaned back in the Adirondack chair and stared up at the stars. "When I was younger, I thought being a father meant having all the answers. You know? Knowing what to say, how to protect everyone."
Hank chuckled softly. "Same. And now we celebrate just remembering to pack both kids' snacks and not mix up the diaper bags."
They both laughed, low and warm.
Jamie glanced at the house, where he knew Ava was probably curled up with Maeve in her arms, her dark hair spilling over the nursing pillow, half-asleep herself. "She's incredible," he said, almost to himself.
"She is,"Hank agreed. "They both are."
For a moment, only the fire spoke.
Jamie sighed. "Maeve changed something in me. I didn't expect it. I thought I'd just… do what I did with Thomas. Repeat what worked. But it's not the same. She's not the same. I'm not the same."
Hank leaned forward, arms resting on his knees. "That's the secret no one tells you. That fatherhood isn't about duplication. It's about discovery. Each child is a new door, and every time you open one, you find a different part of yourself."
Jamie looked at him then, eyebrows raised. "You've been reading again, haven't you?"
Hank grinned. "I may have borrowed one of June's parenting books. The one with the pastel cover and way too many metaphors."
They both laughed again, but softer this time.
After a pause, Jamie grew quiet, his expression dimming. "Can I tell you something I haven't said out loud yet?"
"Of course."
"I'm scared."
Hank looked at him, silent.
Jamie continued. "Not of the late nights or the diapers. Not even of the crying. I'm scared that I'll miss something important. That I'll be too distracted to notice the small moments. That one day, Thomas will stop running to me with his stories, or Maeve will look at me and feel like she doesn't quite fit in my world."
Hank didn't offer immediate reassurance. Instead, he nodded slowly. "You know what? I think that fear means you're doing it right."
Jamie glanced over.
"It means you're paying attention," Hank said. "The men who mess it up? They're the ones who assume they've got it all figured out. But you—you're watching every breath. That's what fatherhood really is. Being awake to the quiet things."
Jamie's throat tightened. "You think so?"
"I know so."
They sat in silence again, the firelight catching the edges of their faces, softening the worry lines and casting their features in thoughtful amber.
"I watched you with Thomas,"Hank added. "The way he climbs into your lap like it's his safest place. The way he listens when you speak, like your words are gold coins. He already knows you're there. You've laid the foundation. And with Maeve… you'll do it again, brick by brick."
Jamie rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. "You know, I never had this growing up. A father I could talk to. Someone who'd sit by a fire and help me make sense of my fears."
Hank's voice grew gentler. "Neither did I. Which is exactly why we're doing it differently."
The back door creaked open, and June poked her head out. "Clara's asleep. Ava said she'll bring Maeve down in a bit for a little fresh air."
Jamie's face lit up. "She's awake?"
"Just finished feeding," June said, then winked. "And probably composing another letter in her head."
Hank stood and kissed her cheek as she stepped outside. "You joining us?"
"In a few," she whispered, sliding past him and heading for the porch swing.
Jamie sat back down, his smile softening into something luminous as Ava appeared moments later, bundled in a cardigan, Maeve swaddled in a lilac blanket against her chest.
She joined him by the fire, and Jamie reached out to take his daughter gently into his arms. She was blinking sleepily, her tiny lips forming the beginnings of a yawn. He looked down at her, then at Ava.
"She looks like you," he murmured.
Ava smiled and leaned her head against his shoulder. "She has your eyes, though."
They sat there like that for a while—two parents cradling their newborn under a canopy of stars, their son asleep upstairs, their friends nearby, the scent of smoke and lavender drifting in the breeze.
Hank wrapped an arm around June as they watched the scene unfold.
"You know," June whispered, "sometimes it's the quiet moments that feel the most like miracles."
Hank nodded. "This is the kind of night I want to bottle and open again in twenty years."
And just then, Maeve let out a tiny sigh in her sleep—content, nestled in the arms of the father who had once feared he wouldn't be enough.
But tonight, in the stillness of the garden, under the sheltering sky and beside the flickering fire, he was exactly what she needed: present, whole, and full of love.