The weeks that followed settled into a rhythm neither expected but both came to accept. True to their word, Jake and Ryan checked in on Emma regularly. Jake stopped by with groceries, fixed the heater in her car, and kept her company during the quiet parts of the week. Ryan came by with music, meals he half-cooked but full-heartedly offered, and the kind of lightness that made Emma laugh when she hadn't realized she needed to.
One gray Thursday afternoon, Emma stood in the kitchen, slicing carrots for a soup she wasn't sure she'd eat. The radio played low in the background, a soft hum of conversation that barely registered. She heard Jake's truck pull into the driveway and felt a familiar comfort settle over her shoulders.
When he knocked, she called out, "Come in!"
He entered, brushing off a light drizzle from his coat. "Smells good."
"We'll see," she said with a shrug. "Soup might be ambitious today."
Jake walked over and leaned against the counter, watching her for a moment. "Want help?"
She handed him a potato. "Sure. Might as well put you to work."
They moved around the kitchen in quiet coordination. She had grown used to his presence. He didn't fill the air with words, just helped with whatever she was doing and offered steady calm. It was a different kind of company, one she came to appreciate more with each visit.
"I called Luke's unit contact yesterday," Jake said after a while.
Emma paused, knife still in hand. "Did you hear anything?"
"No news yet. Just updates that everything's routine."
She nodded slowly. "I miss his voice. Even the quiet parts."
"I know," Jake said gently.
They finished the soup and sat at the table, steam rising between them. Emma glanced outside where the drizzle had turned into a soft rain, streaking the windows in slow patterns.
"You ever feel like you're holding your breath?" she asked.
Jake looked at her thoughtfully. "Yeah. When my wife passed, it felt like I forgot how to breathe for a while. Got better with time. But it takes its own path."
Emma nodded. She knew about Jake's wife, of course. The grief he carried was quiet, not hidden but not flaunted either. That kind of understanding made him easier to be around.
That weekend, Ryan arrived late Saturday morning with a large canvas, a backpack full of paint supplies, and a bag of muffins.
"Are you sure this wall is ready for magic?" he asked, standing in the nursery doorway.
Emma smiled, arms crossed. "Only if it's gentle magic."
"Only the softest spells," he replied with a grin.
She pulled an old blanket over the floor while he set up. The sound of brush against canvas filled the room. The mural came to life slowly—a twilight sky with low-hanging stars, tree silhouettes stretching across the wall, and a small fox curled beneath a glowing moon.
"It's beautiful," Emma said as she watched from the rocking chair.
"It's quiet," Ryan replied. "Like the way I imagine a baby feels when they first wake up and don't know the world yet."
She looked at the wall, then at him. "You have a way of seeing things."
"Sometimes," he said with a shrug. "Most days I just try not to drop the paint."
That evening, the three of them sat in the living room. Emma brought out tea, Jake had brought pie, and Ryan plucked quiet tunes on his guitar. It wasn't planned. It didn't need to be.
Emma looked at them, these two very different brothers who had become her anchors. Jake with his steady hands and thoughtful silences, Ryan with his music and bursts of color. They were nothing like Luke, and yet they shared parts of him.
She said, half-joking, "You two really are showing off, you know."
Jake raised an eyebrow. "How so?"
"One's painting stars and the other's baking pies. High bar, gentlemen."
Ryan grinned. "We aim to please."
Jake gave a rare chuckle. "Just keeping the promise."
Emma smiled, but her heart tightened a little. Luke. Always there, just under the surface.
As the night wore on and Ryan eventually packed up his guitar, Emma found herself lingering in the quiet with Jake.
"He's lucky," she said softly.
"Who?"
"Luke. To have brothers like you."
Jake didn't answer right away. He stared into his tea. "We owe him."
"You don't. But I'm glad you feel like you do."
Jake stood and reached for his coat. "Good night, Emma. Call if you need anything."
She nodded. "I will. Thank you."
After the door closed, she stood in the empty living room for a moment, then turned off the lights. Upstairs, she paused in the nursery doorway. The stars on the wall glowed faintly in the hallway light. She stepped inside and sat in the rocking chair, hands resting on her growing belly.
She thought of Luke, far away. She thought of Jake, who rarely spoke but always showed up. Of Ryan, who gave her laughter when it was hardest to find.
She felt alone, but not lonely.
The weeks moved forward. Appointments. Messages from Luke that came sporadically, always short, sometimes delayed. Emma kept a notebook of what she wanted to tell him when they next talked. Cravings. Dreams. The way the baby started to respond to music.
Ryan came by one afternoon with a small keyboard. "Thought the bean might like some variation."
She laughed. "You're turning this child into a musician before they can crawl."
"It's never too early," he said.
Jake helped her install baby gates, fix a creaky stair, and clear the guest room to make space for visiting family later. He never stayed long, never talked too much, but when he left, something always felt more in place.
The bond between them deepened, unspoken but understood. Not just about Luke anymore, but about the strange little family they were becoming. Three people, tied together by love, grief, and the hope of something new.
They didn't call it anything. They didn't need to.
One night, a sudden power outage knocked out the lights. Emma, startled, stood in the hallway with her phone flashlight when a knock came at the door.
It was Jake, flashlight in hand.
"Thought you might be freaked."
She let out a breath. "A little."
"You okay?"
She nodded. "Want some candlelight tea?"
"Sounds like a plan."
They lit candles and sat at the kitchen table. The flickering light made shadows dance across the room.
Emma sipped her tea and looked at him. "You didn't have to come."
"I know."
"But you did."
Jake met her eyes. "You're not alone, Emma."
She looked down at her cup, then back at him. "I believe you."
Outside, the wind had picked up. The house creaked softly in the night. But inside, with the warm glow of candlelight and the quiet understanding between them, Emma felt steady.
Not whole, maybe. Not healed. But held.
And sometimes, that was enough.
She didn't know what the next months would bring. But she knew she could face them. Under the same sky, with these two men beside her, she wasn't just waiting anymore.
She was living.
And the butterflies she felt in her belly, a gentle reminder: you are not alone.
The trio was finding a rhythm—unsteady, imperfect, but real. Emma, Jake, and Ryan. Bound not by obligation, but by choice. And in the quiet moments, in the laughter, in the help offered without asking, that choice began to feel like family.