Page 140 of What We Burn

“Absolutely not.”

“Option three—and this is the one I’m most proud of—Adamehlar-Wardcross-Rainehart. Double hyphenated. Distinguished. The kind of name that gets embroidered on a tennis bag.”

“Milo, we are not naming a hypothetical baby after a tennis bag.”

“Okay, then we go with Option four, Hart. Simple. Clean.”

“Why your name?”

He scoffs. “I’m obviously the biological father.”

“Based on what?” I ask.

“Based on the fact that I’m the most genetically gifted person in this room and that’s not even debatable.” He pops another gummy bear. “Also I looked it up, and the odds of a blond-haired, blue-eyed baby with my bone structure are⁠—”

“There is no baby, Milo,” Sage says.

“And neither you nor Sage is blond,” I add.

“Semantics.” He winks at Sage. “But the Google doc is ready when you are, kitten.”

Sage presses her face into my chest and makes a sound that’s half laugh, half sob. “I hate all of you.”

“You love all of us.”

“Same thing.”

Milo opens the pamphlet and clears his throat. “Chapter one: Understanding Her Flow. Did you know that the average menstrual cycle⁠—”

“Out,” I order.

“I’m educating myself, Holden. This is growth.”

“Out!”

“Fine.” He snaps the pamphlet shut and gathers his gummy bears with wounded dignity. “But I’m leaving the uterus plushie. She needs a comfort object and I refuse to let that be you.”

He drops the stuffed uterus on the pillow beside Sage’s head, kisses her temple, and shuffles out of the room. I hear him announce to the kitchen, “I’ve been banished. Someone make me toast. I’m processing rejection and I need carbs.”

The door clicks shut.

Sage tilts her head up. Her eyes are tired and warm and a little glassy, but she’s looking at me the way she does when the noise falls away and it’s just us.

“I love this—the quiet. Us,” she says, tipping her chin up until I bring my mouth to meet hers. The kiss is slow and lazy, and she sighs against my mouth, so I wrap my hand around the back of her head and deepen it.

“Do you know what else helps with cramps?” I murmur, my mouth trailing along her jaw.

She lets out a breathy laugh. “Holden.”

“Medically proven. I looked it up.”

“I’m bleeding.”

“And?”

“It’s a crime scene down there.”

“Wildcat.” I brush the hair off her forehead and look her dead in the eye. “I’m a detective. Crime scenes are my specialty.”