The name comes quietly.
Not in a rush. Not during the dramatic moment everyone expects. It settles into the space between us the second night home, when the house is dim and still and the baby sleeps against my chest like they have always belonged there. The world feels narrowed to lamplight and breath and warmth, everything outside these walls temporarily irrelevant.
Damian is sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped. He is watching us with an expression so soft it almost hurts to look at, like something inside him has cracked open and stayed that way. The lamp is low, casting gentle shadows across the room. The world outside the window is dark and silent. No traffic. No voices. Just the faint hum of the house settling around us.
Everything fee
