Page 96 of Hollow State

But this year was different.

He sat on the back patio of his new house on Harrison Lake with Wynn beside him, his palm spread over the curve of her belly. The baby shifted beneath his hand, a small roll of movement that always brought a smile to his face.

The lake stretched in front of them, deep blue beneath the late afternoon sun. Harrison Lake didn’t have the restless violence of the ocean, but it had its own moods. The water shifted with the wind, silvering near the shore, darkening toward the center. Mountains rose beyond the lake, their peaks softened by distance and a thin veil of summer haze.

Darwin had a house with windows.

Lots of them.

Tall windows along the back wall. Windows in the kitchen. Windows in the bedroom where morning light crossed the floor in long strips, and Wynn complained about his inability to sleep past six—even when he wasn’t on a schedule. Windows in the nursery, though the curtains were already up since Wynn had informed him that babies did not care about his need for natural light.

The house sat close enough to the bunker that they could be there at a moment's notice, but far enough that Darwin didn’t wake up feeling as if he were still three stories beneath the earth.

Right next door, Coulter and Neve had built their own home.

That had been Wynn’s idea. Or maybe Neve’s. Or maybe the two of them had simply decided it without officially informing anyone until the contractors had arrived with lumber and permits.

Either way, Darwin liked it.

He liked the idea that their daughter would grow up with Coulter and Neve’s child—close enough to run barefoot between houses, tracking mud across both patios and blaming the dog no one had yet admitted they were going to adopt.

Neve sat across from him with her feet tucked beneath her chair, one hand resting low against her abdomen even though she wasn’t showing yet. She’d only found out a few weeks ago and had been smiling ever since.

Coulter sat beside her, his arm across the back of her chair, looking like a man trying not to hover and doing a terrible job of it.

Darwin understood completely.

Zadie and Gideon occupied the bench near the railing. Zadie had her legs curled beneath her and one hand in Gideon’s, while Gideon held a bottle of water in the other, his gaze moving from the lake to the house and then to the narrow trail that led toward the road.

Old habits.

Darwin had them, too.

Quinn and Scout sat closest to the steps. Scout had her boots propped on the lower rail, and Quinn had stretched out his legs, crossing them at his ankles.

Wynn leaned into Darwin’s side. “You’re doing it again.”

“What?”

“Being overly contemplative in the middle of conversation.”

“I’m admiring the simple life.” He rubbed his thumb over her belly. “Our family. The lake. Our home. Sometimes, I have to pinch myself because I'm not sure it's real.”

The baby kicked. Hard.

"That's about as real as it gets." Wynn pressed her hand over his. "She's nonstop, day and night."

"Did you guys finish the nursery yet?" Gideon asked.

"Mostly," Wynn said. "Darwin just needs to make a few adjustments."

"That's wife speak for Wynn didn't like the way I arranged the crib and changing table, so we're going to rearrange it for the third time."

Wynn playfully slapped his arm. "You didn't like the first attempt."

"Not true." Darwin arched a brow. "I just agreed with you to save an argument."

"I know how that goes." Zadie laughed.