His slightly unfocused gaze remains on my face, intent and serious.
“You’re Ian.” I trail my scarred knuckles over the impossibly perfect skin of his cheek. “You arrived ninety-two hours ago. And I already can’t imagine a universe without you in it.”
He makes a small cooing sound.
Encouraged, I rest one hand lightly on his stomach while I speak, steadying him by instinct alone.
“I used to believe that if I studied something long enough, I could understand exactly how it worked,” I say. “The universe encourages that kind of thinking. Entire galaxies behave in ways that can be described with mathematics.”
Ian’s eyelids grow heavier while he listens.
“But you,” I continue softly, fitting his little arms and legs into clean pajamas, “operate on a different set of principles.”
Ian’s content baby noises, the faint jingle of Oliver’s collar, and my voice are the only sounds in the peaceful hush of the nursery. Ian’s fingers curl slowly around my thumb.
“I’ll learn to recognize what you need,” I tell him. “If I don’t get it right away, don’t give up on me, okay? Because I won’t ever give up on you. I promise.”
Ian’s grip tightens slightly.
I lift my glasses and swipe beneath my eye with the heel of my hand then breathe a soft laugh. “Well. You don’t understand what I’m saying. I know that. If it’s okay with you, I’ll just keep on saying it, and one day, you will.”
I swaddle him as I speak, then lift him from the changing table, drawing him carefully against my chest and supporting his head in the palm of my hand. His skin is warm against mine, his cheek settling just below my collarbone as if that part of me had been waiting for him all this time.
He cuddles against me, content but still awake.
Oliver rises and follows us as I move across the room.
“I should warn you,” I murmur, adjusting my hold as I walk toward the window, “that you were born into a household where astronomy is kind of a big deal.”
Outside, the sky stretches over the dark yard, clear and sharp. “Only a place with minimal light pollution has this level of visibility to the naked eye,” I explain.
I shift the curtain aside, lower myself to sit cross-legged on the floor, and angle my body so Ian faces outward and up, though I know the view is currently lost on him.
“That’s all right,” I say. “You have time.”
His breathing remains slow and even. I rest my cheek lightly against the soft fuzz of his hair.
Oliver stands on his back legs and props his paws on my arm near Ian’s feet, his tail wagging.
I straighten and scratch him behind his ear with one hand, then point. “Down,” I say gently. When Oliver settles with his head on my leg, I pet his long back. “Ian is a lucky boy to have you as his family. But you have to wait for him to get much,much bigger before you can play. Try not to get him into too much trouble when you do.”
Ian coos. Oliver thumps his tail with happiness. No one can tell me that dog doesn’t know exactly what I just said.
“So. More talking.” I return my full attention to Ian. “The first constellation I ever showed your mother was Cassiopeia.”
The stars are bright tonight, the pattern unmistakable once you know where to look.
“I was twelve,” I continue. “She was eight.”
Ian snuffles.
“I found her hiding.”
The memory rises with total clarity. Franki was a small girl with pink ducky pajamas and a broken heart.
“I didn’t know what to do with a crying kid,” I admit. “So I did the only thing I could think of.”
I look back out through the glass.
