The doctor, biting her lip, was clearly trying not to laugh. "Mr. Robertson, I can assure you, the baby hascookedquite enough."
Sage rolled her eyes. Euan leaned back in his chair, muttering under his breath about how no one had warned him it would be this complicated, while the doctor scribbled notes with a smile she couldn't quite hide.
The Caesarean section went as planned. She'd been conscious throughout, a thin blue drape cutting the world in half, the sterile lights buzzing overhead. When the anaesthetist showed Euan the spinal needle, his face drained of colour. They'd found him a chair just in time, and Sage, seeing him bent double with his head between his knees, started laughing so hard that the anaesthetist muttered, "Stop shaking, please. You're making my job impossible." It had only made her laugh harder. Nervous laughter, bright and bubbling, echoed strangely in the theatre.
The surgery took hardly any time. And then the cry came—strong, furious and demanding.
Eight pounds, three ounces. A squalling miracle laid briefly against her chest before being carried to Euan, who held him in those huge hands as if he were spun glass. His eyes shone wetly, his jaw working as though he couldn't quite find the words. He didn't leave Sage's side, even as the theatre bustled and the surgeons stitched her neat and careful.
Later, back in her room, Sage eased against the pillows, drowsy from the drugs. She had been ravenous and had polished off the meal while Euan kept up the running commentary. David had come by with a onesie which Euan refused to show Sage because he said it was 'inappropriate'. Too soon, David reluctantly left because he had mock exams. She'd just finished nursing, her body aching and bewildered by the changes, when she looked over to see Euan still staring at their son. His massive arms cradled the baby, the contrast almost comical, the tiny blue bundle tucked against his chest. The steady rise and fallof Euan's breath betrayed how tightly he was holding himself together.
"He's...perfect," Euan whispered, voice cracking. "I can't believe he's ours."
Sage closed her eyes, letting his words wash over her like a calming balm.
Blair was on her way. Sage braced herself, smoothing her hair with trembling fingers. The door opened to reveal Blair with Hamish at her side.
"Congratulations." Blair's Scottish burr sounded a bit wobbly and subdued. She hesitated, then added stiffly, "He is so beautiful. May I hold him?"
Euan surrendered him, with instructions like he was an expert at holding babies.
Blair tucked the little baby in her arms and watched him pout. "Told ya it'd be a lad."
Euan beamed between them, clearly delighted by the truce.
They spoke a little about the baby's name, about Euan's performance in theatre. Now, there was a flicker of understanding there—a tentative bridge that Sage hoped would grow to be more in the future.
As Blair left, she touched Sage's shoulder briefly, almost awkwardly, but with a warmth that hadn't been there before.
And Sage, watching her go, thought maybe, just maybe, things would be different now.
Epilogue
The sun spilled golden light over Gretna Green, the little chapel crowded with family, friends, and a handful of Euan's old mates. Brock dozed in the crook of David's arm, his tiny fists curled tight, a soft snuffle against his big brother's chest. David looked proud and awkward all at once, but he carried the weight of best man easily enough, flanked by a few of Euan's mates.
Euan had insisted on a kilt—"To show off me hairy, manly, pasty legs," he'd declared, to Sage's endless amusement. David had been a sport and joined him in tartan, though the boy walked with exaggerated care after Fergus, one of the groomsmen, admitted loudly that he didn't believe in underwear. The whole front row nearly fell off their seats when a rogue gust of wind caught Fergus's kilt, giving them an uninvited close-up of his crown jewels. The ripple of laughter started with a muffled cough, then spread through the pews until the minister had to pause to regain his composure. Sage caught Euan's eye, both trying, and failing, not to grin like fools at the altar.
Fergus was as tall as Euan, broad-shouldered, with a rugged face framed by thick waves of dark blond hair and a beard that made him look half-Viking. His blue-grey eyes had a wicked gleam, the sort that suggested trouble was never far behind him. He arrived half drunk, with whisky on his breath and his shirt a touch skewed, but carried himself with such easy control that no one could quite call him out on it. He also didn't have an ounce of shame in his body.
Blair stood at Sage's side, surprisingly radiant in bridesmaid's satin, her hair in soft curls. She looked more relaxed than Sage had ever seen her, smiling shyly as she adjusted Sage's bouquet. The other bridesmaids, mostly Sage's new friends from the hospice, fussed happily around them.
And Sage looked luminous in lace. Her dress skimmed her curves, long sleeves of delicate floral that caught in the sunlight. For a moment, as she walked towards Euan, Brock's cries briefly filling the chapel before David hushed him, she thought her chest might burst from the sheer joy of it.
The ceremony was simple, sweet, with laughter woven through the vows. Euan, who'd posted mock bans all over the neighbourhood as a gag, grinned like a schoolboy as he kissed her breathless before the priest could say the magic words.
"No take-backs, lass," he muttered against her lips.
At the reception, Fergus stood for the best man's speech. He tugged nervously at his jacket, glanced at his notes, then decided against them.
He held up a pint and deadpanned, "I promised Euan I'd bring some dignity to this wedding. But from the reaction of the firsttwo rows, I think I left my dignity somewhere under my kilt." The hall erupted, Euan burying his face in his hands while Sage nearly choked on her single glass of champagne.
"Well, then...where the hell do I start? I've known Euan since we were wee lads, and let me tell ye, he hasn't changed much. Still got the same daft grin, same stubborn streak, and still thinks a spray of Lynx Africa is enough tae make him God's gift tae women.
"Back in school, we thought he'd never find a lass who'd put up wi' him. Then Sage came along. Gorgeous, clever, and far too good for him—so naturally, we all assumed she'd come tae her senses and leg it. Yet here we are, barely months later, and she's leg-shackled. Sage, you deserve sainthood or at least, a steady supply of wine and noise-cancelling headphones."
He took a long drink, wiped his mouth, and leaned on the mic. "Now, everyone says the best man's supposed tae share embarrassing stories. But honestly, most o' Euan's stories can't legally be told in mixed company. So, I'll just say this—if he promises tae cook for ye, Sage, run...run fast. The man once set fire tae a pan of beans.Beans! How d'you even manage that?"
The crowd roared, Sage hiding her face behind her hand while Euan groaned.
