Rhett stands outside the door, back to the wall, arms folded so tight his biceps threaten to shred the sleeves of his shirt. His hair is a disaster, dark circles carving out his eyes. He sees us, and for a second his mouth flickers between a smirk and a grimace.
“Holy shit,” he says. “You’re alive.”
I shrug. “Been busy. But yes.”
His eyes dart to Amara. He tries to say something witty, but his voice cracks and he ends up coughing instead.
“You can go in,” he says, looking at his shoes. “She’s awake. They—uh—they’re both fine.”
I nod. “Come on, darling.”
He doesn’t follow. He just leans against the wall, head tipped back, and lets out a shaky breath.
Inside, the room is flooded with too much light. The curtains are open, the bed is perfectly made, and Isolde is propped up against a mountain of pillows on the couch. She looks tiny, shrunken, the hard angles of her face softened by exhaustion and love. In her arms is the baby, swaddled so tight it looks like a doll.
Amara freezes in the doorway, and I have to nudge her forward with a hand at her spine.
Isolde glances up, eyes glassy but sharp. She sees us, and the edge comes back into her voice.
“Don’t you fucking dare cry,” she says, looking at Amara. “I’ll stab you if you do.”
Amara huffs, “You look like shit.”
“Better than you, bitch.” Issy giggles and I stifle a smile at how easily these two get on, despite barely knowing each other.
I walk to the side of the couch, lean down, and look at the baby.
He’s ugly. All newborns are ugly. But there’s something perfect in the smallness, the absolute purity of him. His hair is black and glossy, matted down like wet paint. His fists are balled up under his chin, and his mouth opens and closes. His eyes are dark, lined by long lashes.
Isolde sees my face. “His name is Maverick.”
“Yeah, Rhett said.” I snort. “You named him after a Tom Cruise character.”
“Shut up, Roth.”
Amara steps closer, but not too close, like she’s afraid she’ll break something by breathing. Her eyes are wide, lips parted. I can see the tremor in her hands.
Isolde cradles the baby tighter, then gestures with a tilt of her head. “Come here.”
Amara moves, slow and deliberate, and sits at the edge of the couch. She stares at the baby, then at Isolde, then back at the baby, as if trying to understand how it got here.
“He looks like Rhett,” she says.
Isolde grins, but it’s weak. “Poor fucker.”
They share a moment—silent, ancient, the way only girls who survived the same slaughter can.
“Do you want to hold him?” Isolde asks.
Amara recoils, but then nods. She wipes her hands on her jeans, as if that will make a difference, and reaches out. Isolde shows her how to support the head, how to cradle the weight against her chest.
I expect Amara to fumble, to panic, but she goes still. Her face is pale and blank, eyes glued to the tiny thing in her arms. She rocks him, barely, and he blinks up at her, mouth working in a slow, wet rhythm.
For a moment, the room is silent. Then Maverick lets out a squeak, and Amara almost laughs.
Isolde watches her, then shifts her gaze to me.
“You want a go?” she asks.
