The temperature in the room drops about twenty degrees. "Is your President interested?" Zane asks carefully.
"He's listening. Which is why me being here is..." Miguel gestures vaguely. "Problematic."
"What does that mean?" I ask, though part of me already knows.
Miguel looks at me, and his expression is resigned. "It means if my President finds out I'm at the hospital with my sister and the Iron Talons President, he'll see it as betrayal. As me choosing family over club. And he'll remove me. Violently."
Zane's jaw tightens. "So why are you here?"
Miguel looks down at Santiago, now back in my arms. "Because he's my nephew. Because she's my sister. Because some things are worth getting your ass kicked for."
Something passes between them—a look of mutual understanding that makes my chest tight. Both of them chose family. Both of them are risking everything for it.
"May I?" Zane asks, gesturing to Santiago.
I nod, and Zane crosses to the bed. The transfer happens smoothly now—we've been doing this for two days, getting the rhythm down. Zane settles Santiago against his chest with practiced ease, and I see Miguel notice it. Notice that Zane knows what he's doing. That he's been here, been present, been a father.
"He needs to be burped," Miguel says. "He just ate."
"I know," Zane says quietly, positioning Santiago. "I've been doing this for two days now."
Miguel blinks, surprised. "You know how to burp a baby?"
"I'm his father. I'm learning."
"Good." Miguel nods slowly. "That's... good."
The moment stretches, weighted with everything unsaid. These two men who should be enemies, passing my son between themlike a peace offering. Like proof that maybe, just maybe, things can be different.
The door opens and Izzy slips back in, phone in hand and determination in her eyes.
"I need a photo of this," she announces.
"Izzy, no—" I start.
"Yes. This moment matters." She looks at all of us—me in the hospital bed, Zane holding Santiago, Miguel standing awkwardly nearby. "Iron Talons President, Coyote Fangs lieutenant, and one tiny baby who's about to save both your asses. Now everybody smile before I start crying and ruin my makeup."
"We're not—" Miguel begins.
"Humor me," Izzy interrupts. "Someday Santiago's going to ask about this moment. When two enemy clubs made peace over a baby. And we're going to have photo evidence that it actually happened."
Miguel looks at me. I shrug, too emotionally exhausted to argue. Zane just adjusts his hold on Santiago and waits.
"Lena in the middle," Izzy directs like she's staging a magazine shoot. "Zane on one side with Santiago, Miguel on the other. Nobody has to look at each other. Just look at the baby."
We arrange ourselves awkwardly—me propped up in the hospital bed, exhausted but trying to smile. Zane on my right, holding Santiago with surprising tenderness. Miguel on my left, hand resting on my shoulder like he's afraid to let go now that he's back.
Both men carefully not looking at each other. Both looking at Santiago.
Both here.
Both trying.
"Perfect," Izzy says, snapping multiple photos. "Santiago's going to see these someday and know he's loved by everyone. Even the ones who were supposed to hate each other."
"Especially those ones," I murmur.
After the photos, Miguel checks his phone and swears softly in Spanish. "Danny's been waiting outside for an hour. I need to go before this gets harder to explain."
