Page 95 of Montana Justice

I risked a glance over my shoulder to find both twins had somehow gotten hold of their sippy cups and were conducting what looked like a science experiment involving gravity and Cheerios. At eleven months, they were mobile enough to be dangerous but not quite coordinated enough to execute their grand plans. Thank God.

“How do they always know when I’m not looking?” I asked the pancakes.

“Twin telepathy.” Lachlan’s voice came from the doorway, rough with sleep but warm with amusement. “Pretty sure they’re planning world domination one Cheerio at a time.”

He crossed the kitchen in bare feet and pajama pants that hung low on his hips, mail tucked under one arm. My heart did that stupid flutter thing it always did when I saw him in the morning—hair sticking up at odd angles, that sleepy smile that was just for us.

“Coffee?” I asked, already reaching for his favorite mug.

“You’re an angel.” He dropped the mail on the counter and wrapped his arms around me from behind, pressing a kiss to the spot where my neck met my shoulder. “Mmm. You smell like syrup.”

“Charming.” But I leaned back into him anyway, letting myself have this moment. These small, perfect moments that I’d never thought I’d get to keep.

A crash from the breakfast nook made us both turn. Sadie had managed to knock her entire bowl of Cheerios onto the floor and was looking at the mess with scientific interest. Caleb watched his sister with obvious admiration.

“I’ve got it,” Lachlan said, already moving. “You save the pancakes.”

This was our dance now. The rhythm we’d found in the chaos of raising twins while rebuilding our lives from the ground up. He handled breakfast cleanup while I plated food. I’d get them dressed while he packed the diaper bag. We’d switch off who wrestled them into car seats, depending on who had the most patience left.

It was messy and exhausting and absolutely nothing like the family I’d imagined when I was young and stupid enough to believe in fairy tales.

It was better.

“Hey,” Lachlan said suddenly, his voice different. Serious. “You need to see this.”

He held two envelopes, both looking official enough to make my stomach clench. That familiar spike of fear—would this be the thing that destroyed our carefully built peace?

“Which one first?” I managed, setting down the spatula with hands that wanted to shake.

“This one.” He handed me the thinner envelope, his eyes steady on mine. “It’s okay. Open it.”

The return address was the county courthouse. My fingers fumbled with the seal, tearing the paper more than necessary. Inside, a single sheet of official letterhead. I had to read it twice before the words sank in.

“It’s official. Probation.” The word came out choked. They’d told us at court this was the sentencing, but seeing it here officially in my hand made it real. “Two years’ probation. No jail time.”

“The DA came through,” Lachlan said quietly. “The circumstances, the duress, your cooperation in taking down the trafficking ring—Judge Hernandez agreed minimum sentence was appropriate.”

Two years of checking in with a probation officer. Two years of staying out of trouble—which wouldn’t be hard since the most dangerous thing I did these days was try to bathe both twins at the same time. Two years was nothing compared to what I could have faced.

“Hey.” Lachlan’s hand cupped my cheek, thumb brushing away a tear I hadn’t realized had fallen. “This is good news.”

“I know. I just—” I looked over at the twins, who had moved on from Cheerio experiments to what appeared to be competitive babbling. “I was so scared they’d take me away from them.”

“Never.” The fierceness in his voice made me look back at him. “I would have fought anyone who tried. Beckett would have helped. Hell, half the town would have shown up at that courthouse. You’re not going anywhere.”

“What’s the other envelope?”

His smile turned soft, almost nervous. “Open it.”

This one was thicker, heavier paper. Legal documents that required multiple signatures and?—

“Adoption papers.” I had to sit down. Right there on the kitchen floor, legs suddenly unable to hold me. “You’re—these are to legally adopt the kids.”

“Already signed by me.” He crouched in front of me, taking my hands. “Just need your signature and the judge’s approval. My lawyer says it’s basically a formality at this point, but I wanted it official. Both twins, legally mine. No questions, no loopholes. Mine.”

“Ours,” I corrected, but I was crying too hard to sound stern about it.

“Yeah.” He pulled me against his chest, and I realized he was shaking too. “Ours.”

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