Dark hair slick to his head. Red, furious, deeply unimpressed already.
My lungs forgot their function.
The baby inhaled.
Then he let out a wail so loud and offended it filled the room completely.
Fergus started barking as if announcing royalty, while my chest tightened so hard it was almost pain.
I had seen newborns before, from doorways and hospital corridors and safe distances chosen by men who preferred not to feel anything too directly.
I had never held one. He fit into my hands like he belonged there.
“He,” I managed. “He’s perfect.”
I wrapped him in a clean towel and laid him against Maeve’s chest and pressed a kiss on her lips. “You were perfect.”
She smiled at me and then at our son. The sound she made then was one I will remember until I die. Relief. And it was so deep it changed the room.
She folded around him and kissed his damp head over and over. Tears slid down her face unchecked.
“Hi,” she whispered. “I’m your mama and this is one of your daddies.”
My chest constricted. My son.
He wailed again.
“Yes, I know. This was not the plan. There was meant to be a hospital and lots of happy drugs and some lovely competent woman with warm hands.”
I looked at the tiny dark head against her skin.
Ours.
Maeve looked up at me, shattered and glowing all at once. “Mac.”
“Mac,” I repeated.
His name settled into the room like it had always belonged there.
Maeve refused to let go of him.
“We need to get you and Mac examined by a doctor.”
Maeve looked at me.
“Gregor.”
I straightened.
“Hold him properly.”
Mac came into my arms warm and impossibly small. His face was wrinkled with profound dissatisfaction. One tiny fist escaped the blanket and waved at me like he was lodging a complaint.
I froze.
He froze.
We regarded each other.
