“Oh my,” Martha whispers now, peering down at the bundle in Eden’s arms. Her voice softens instantly. “Girl or boy?”
“Girl,” Eden says quietly, her voice thick with exhaustion and awe.
Martha’s eyes flick to me, and she grins. “Oh boy. You’re gonna have your work cut out.”
“Tell me about it,” I mutter, though my throat tightens around the words.
“She’s beautiful,” Martha adds, her voice reverent.
“She is,” I agree, because nothing has ever felt more true.
Eden shifts slightly and looks up at her sister. “Do you want to hold her?”
I stiffen before I can stop myself.
Every instinct in me screamsno—too soon, too fragile, too much. Eden notices immediately. She smiles at me, tired but knowing.
“Relax,” she murmurs. “She knows how to hold a baby.”
I nod, even though my heart is slamming violently against my ribs, my hands itching to hover, to catch, to protect.
Martha takes my daughter carefully, like she’s holding something sacred. And watching someone else cradle her—ourbaby—brings out a whole new feeling inside of me.
Eden reaches for my hand, and I give it to her instantly.
“We have to share her,” she says softly, like she can sense the way my chest is tightening. Like she knows I’m already struggling with the idea of letting anyone else hold what we made.
I bend down and press a kiss to her forehead, breathing her in. “Did I tell you how amazing you are?”
She smiles sleepily, her eyes heavy. “Only about five hundred times.”
A shaky laugh leaves me as I brush her hair back from her face, my gaze roaming over her like I need to memorise every inch. “Only five hundred? Fuck, I better up my game.”
But the truth is, I don’t have words big enough for what she just did.
Watching her bring our daughter into the world—through pain, fear, exhaustion—without breaking, it wrecked me. She didn’t just survive it, she owned it. Commanded the room. Took control of something that we were both terrified of. And the respect I already had for her? It multiplied into something fierce and unshakeable.
She’s a force, my Queen.
And now, she’s the mother of my child.
“We still need to talk,” she says gently.
My stomach drops.
I’d forgotten. Forgotten that she came looking for me for a reason. Forgotten that this moment, this bubble of warmth and love, might not be permanent.
“Right,” I say quietly, every muscle in my body tensing.
Because I can survive a lot of things. Violence. Loss. Pain. But if she tells me that this—us—is a mistake . . . if she tells me the weekend, the closeness, the hope, was just a moment and not a beginning . . .
I don’t know how I can come back from that.
I lean in and kiss her lips this time, slow and lingering, my eyes squeezing shut like I can will a different outcome into existence. Like if I hold on long enough, I won’t lose another piece of my life.
“Okay,” I murmur against her mouth. “I’m here whenever you’re ready.” I pull back just enough to look at her. “But right now, you need rest.”
I glance over at Martha, still staring down at our baby girl like she’s something holy, something precious beyond words. The tension in my chest eases a fraction.
