Everything burns. I cry out because I can’t stop it—because it feels like there’s no room in my body for him, like I’m coming apart trying to make space.
And then… relief. Instant.
The sound that fills the room stops me cold.
A cry cuts through the room, fierce and outraged. The sound of someone arriving and making sure we know it.
Everything in me stops.
I don’t have words for what happens in that moment.
Something shifts inside me.
Not pain. The opposite.
Like a weight I’ve been carrying for years finally loosens its grip.
Ever since that morning on the island, when Connor came into the world, and there was only silence after, a part of me has been holding its breath.
For the first time, it lets go.
My son cries, loud and alive, and I’m crying with him.
Saria places him on my chest, and I gather him in. He’s heavier than I expected.
I look at his face, red and furious and perfect.
“Look at him.” My voice isn’t quite steady. “Dane, look at him.”
Dane’s expression shifts into something I’ve almost never seen. Completely unguarded. He puts his hand on our son’s back, covering nearly all of it, and the baby startles—then settles under his touch.
“Hey, bub,” Dane says, his voice breaking.
Our son blinks, his cries softening, fading into something more like contentment.
“He knows his dad’s voice.”
Dane lets out a breath that turns into a quiet laugh, then presses his mouth to my temple and stays there.
“He’s absolutely perfect,” I whisper.
“Yeah.” Dane’s arm tightens around me. “He is.”
“He has your dark hair.”
He chuckles. “He does.”
I look down at him—the curve of his cheek, the softness of his hair, the weight of him in my arms—and everything feels exactly as it should.
“Connor would have loved him.”
Dane smiles. “Yeah, he would have.”
I lean back, holding our son close. Everything that matters is here in this room, and I have never felt this full.
“I love you, Char.”
“I love you too.”
