The hospital room smelled like fresh flowers, antiseptic, and the faint sweet-musk of three days’ worth of skin-to-skin and milk. Emma lay propped up in the hospital bed, robe open just enough for the baby to rest against her chest, his tiny head tucked under her left breast. He was quiet now, full from the last feeding, but every few minutes his little fist would flex against her skin and his legs would kick like he was testing the air.
Mark had been gone for forty-eight hours his client trip finally cut short by a sudden cancellation. He’d flown back at 6 p.m. yesterday, eyes red from lack of sleep, and walked straight into the room like he’d never left. The second he saw the baby he’d dropped to his knees beside the bed, pressed his face to the dark line on Emma’s belly, and sobbed.
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