“No.” I step closer, crouch down so I’m eye level with the baby. I study him, the way his nose wrinkles when he yawns, the way his hands grasp at the air. I reach out, touch his cheek with my thumb. His skin is impossibly soft.
He turns, latching onto my finger, and his grip is shockingly strong.
Isolde smiles, a real one this time. “He likes you.”
I shake my head. “He likes the warmth. The pulse. It’s instinct.”
“Don’t be a dick.”
I smirk, but I don’t argue. I look at Amara, at the way her hair falls around her face, at the way she studies the baby like he’s a puzzle she can solve.
“You look good with him,” I say.
She ignores me, but I see the flush climb her neck.
There’s a knock at the door. Rhett sticks his head in, eyes flicking from Isolde to the baby to me.
“Can I—?”
Amara nods and hands the baby over, careful and slow. Rhett takes him with both hands, holding him like he might shatter at any moment.
He just stands there, staring down at the thing he made. His expression is unguarded, raw.
I’ve never seen him look vulnerable. Not once. It’s almost beautiful.
He clears his throat. “Hi, little man.”
The baby blinks, then screws up his face and starts to wail. Rhett panics, looks at Isolde, then at me, then back at Isolde.
“What do I do?”
“Give him back,” Isolde says, laughing.
Rhett does, relief flooding his face as he sets the baby into her arms.
Amara sits back, watching, her hands clenched in her lap. She looks at me, and she looks content.
Rhett stands at the foot of the bed, hands in his pockets, and looks at me.
“You sticking around?” he asks.
“Maybe,” I say. “Depends on what happens next.”
He nods, like he expected that answer.
Isolde rocks the baby, her eyes already drooping. “You two should go,” she says. “I need to sleep before they try send us home.”
I stand, reach for Amara’s hand, and pull her up. She resists, but only a little.
“Come on, baby girl. Let’s let the family rest.”
We leave the room, the door closing softly behind us. Rhett joins us in the hallway, staring at the ceiling.
I clap him on the shoulder. “You’ll be a good father.”
He snorts. “You’re full of shit.”
“Maybe. But you will.”
