Ethan’s face changes again, and it’s subtle, but I see it. The fear is there, the kind that shows up when you realize love can be taken, so you start planning how to prevent it. He swallows, then rocks her gently.
“She likes you,” I tell him.
“She likes structure,” he says, dead serious.
I snort. “She’s two days old.”
He looks down at her. “I’m going to teach her early.”
“Teach her what? Corporate governance?”
He finally smiles, just a little. “Boundaries.”
I watch him for a second, then I shift in bed and tug the blanket higher. My phone buzzes on the tray table, and I grab it out of habit.
A message lights up from Ethan.
I stare at it, then look at him.
He’s still holding her. He’s still looking down at her like she’s the center of the universe.
My phone buzzes again.
I open the chat thread.
Ethan: Don’t laugh. She’s looking at me.
I glance at the bassinet, then at the baby in his arms, who is not looking at him. She is asleep.
I type back with one hand.
Me: She’s asleep. You’re being dramatic.
My phone buzzes almost immediately.
Ethan: I’m being aware.
I cover my mouth to hide my grin, because the nurse is about to walk in and I’m not trying to look like I’m texting my husband while he stands there holding our newborn like a bodyguard in a suit.
But I am.
The nurse knocks and enters, cheerful and quiet, and she asks how I’m doing. She checks the baby, compliments her, tells me she’s beautiful, then asks if we’ve chosen a name.
Ethan’s eyes flick to mine.
We did choose a name, and we chose it months ago, but saying it out loud feels like making it real in a way I’m not ready for. Not because I don’t want it, but because I do, and that kind of wanting still makes me scared.
I inhale.
“Her name’s Sofia,” I say.
The nurse smiles. “Sofia. That’s lovely.”
Ethan repeats it under his breath like he’s locking it into his bones.
“Sofia,” he murmurs.
The nurse finishes up and leaves, and when the door clicks closed, Ethan looks at me again, and the softness in his face almost floors me.
