The door opens slowly.
And there he is.
Miguel fills the doorway like he always has—six feet of protective older brother energy wrapped in Coyote Fangs leather. But he looks older than five months should account for. Gray threading through his beard that I don't remember. Lines around his eyes carved deeper. The weight of five months of estrangement written into every line of his face.
His eyes are red-rimmed. From the ride? From crying? Both?
When he sees me—sees Santiago in my arms—he stops breathing.
Just stops.
Like his lungs forgot their job. Like the world pressed pause on this impossible moment and neither of us knows how to hit play again.
Twenty seconds of silence that feel like twenty years.
I can see him taking it in—me in the hospital bed, exhausted and emotional. Santiago swaddled against my chest. The reality of what happened while he wasn't here.
"You had a baby," he says finally. Voice rough like he's been screaming or crying or both.
And something in me breaks.
"Five months ago, you said I was dead to you."
Miguel steps inside, closes the door with a soft click. "I was wrong."
I laugh, bitter and sharp. "That's it? You were wrong?"
"I was scared." He runs a hand over his face, a gesture so familiar it hurts. "I was stupid. I was... I thought I'd lose you. To him. To the violence. Like we lost Mom and Dad. And instead of fighting for you, I pushed you away."
The anger rises hot in my throat. "You didn't just push me away. You cut me out. Completely. No calls, no texts, nothing. I was pregnant and terrified and alone, and you weren't there."
"I know."
"Do you?" My voice rises despite my effort to keep it level. "Do you know what it's like to go through pregnancy without your family? To have complications and almost lose him at thirty-three weeks with no one to call? To spend a month on bed rest wondering if my baby would survive, if I'd survive, if any of this was worth it? To give birth knowing my brother didn't even know I was pregnant?"
Miguel flinches with every word like they're physical blows. "No. I don't. But I'm here now."
"Is that supposed to fix five months?"
"No." His voice breaks on the word. "Nothing fixes that. I fucked up, mija. I fucked up so bad." He looks at Santiago, and something in his expression crumbles completely. "Can I... can I meet him?"
I look down at my son. At Cruz nose and Reeves coloring and the perfect miracle sleeping peacefully through our family drama. At the bridge between our broken relationship. At everything I wanted Miguel to see and was terrified he never would.
"His name is Santiago Cruz-Quinn," I whisper. "After Dad."
Miguel's face does something complicated—grief and joy and regret all twisted together. "You gave him Dad's name."
"He was your father too. He deserves to be remembered."
"Can I hold him?"
The question hangs there. Permission to touch, to connect, to start rebuilding what we broke.
I want to say yes immediately. Want to hand over my son and pretend the last five months didn't happen. But I can't. Not yet.
"Wash your hands first," I say, medical training overriding emotion. "Sink's over there."
Miguel moves to the sink, methodical and thorough. I watch his reflection in the mirror—hands shaking slightly, jaw tight, trying to keep himself together.
