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“Two,” Yakov says, and then, “Boy and girl. All done. Took it like a champ.”

I spin right back around, not asking before I snatch up the bottle of prophylactic eye drops. This, I reason, won’t cause him any pain, even though he squirms an awful lot. His eyes are a fascinating shade of gray-blue, and when I gather him up in my arms to take him back to Verity, he mostly looks annoyed.

“Here he is, all cleaned up,” I announce, soothed by the weight of him against me. “Everything looks good. He’s healthy. And the doc said you’re doing good, too.”

“Am I?” she asks, eyes swollen and drooping. Her hair is a knotted mess, and she’s two shades paler, the white gown thenurse put her in doing nothing for her pallor. “I feel like I got run over by a truck.”

Grinning down at Justice, I reason, “That’s what happens when you have a six-pound, four-ounce baby on the floor of a gym.”

“Sounds like a bruin to me.” She laughs at my scowl but then winces. “Ouch.”

“You ready for him?” I ask, even though I’m not ready to let him go. I could hold him forever.

She nods and slowly stretches out her arms. “The nurse said I should feed him right away.”

Pausing, I glance at her chest. “Tell me what you need me to do.”

This is the stuff they don’t teach you in medical school; the stuff that happens after the procedure. The awkwardness and frustration of doing these things for the first time. Verity tugs the neck of her gown down, revealing a plump, ready tit, and I guide Justice to it as she takes him into her arms. Together, we adjust and readjust, nudging his mouth to her nipple.

“This is… weird,” she whispers, sliding a nervous glance at Yakov, who’s preparing the clear hospital bassinet.

Unable to disagree, I call out, “Hey, Yak, don’t take this wrong way, but could you fuck off?”

He barks a laugh, situating the blanket. “Sure thing, Ashby. Push the button if you need me.”

Once he’s left, Verity throws me a look that’s both admonishing and grateful. “Rude.”

“I’ll buy him dinner in the caf,” I promise, fluttering my fingers over Justice’s grasping hand. “Is he?—”

“Oh,” she says, eyes snapping wide as he finally gets with the program, lips latching onto her nipple. “There you go,” she coos down at him. “You’re such a quick learner.”

We share a quiet, soft smile, and by the time I hear the tap on the door, Pace entering reluctantly, Justice is latched on.

“He’s eating?” Pace says, perching on the other side of the bed. He leans down and kisses Verity on the forehead while resting his hand on Justice’s little head.

“He’s trying,” she says, nose wrinkling.

“He’ll figure it out in no time.” Pace watches him closely, his thumb running over the soft hair on his head.

“Where’s Wicker?” she asks, and I hate the line of worry on her forehead. I remember him leaving, but was too distracted to wonder why. “He didn’t freak out, did he?”

“About being a father?” Pace asks, chuckling. “Not… exactly.”

Before he can explain further, the door pushes open and Wick struts in. He’s in a clean shirt that he must have gotten from the gift shop, because emblazoned on the front in chunky collegiate letters is the word ‘DAD’. Clutched in one hand is a box of cigars, and in the other, a nondescript paper bag. I guess someone is finally embracing his role.

He stops short when he sees us, his eyes flicking over this wild little family of ours.

“Nice shirt,” I say, mouth twitching.

“I got you both one, too,” he hands Pace the gift bag. “But holy shit, Red. Look at you.”

“What?” she asks, face falling. “Do I look that bad?”

“What? No,” comes his instant response. “You just look so motherly and shit.” He walks over and squeezes in beside me, lifting her chin to plant a slow, tender kiss on her mouth. “It’s hot as fuck.”

“Stop,” she says, a small smile lifting her tired expression.

“He’s right.” Pace’s hand rises from Justice’s head to stroke the swell of Verity’s tit. “You’re like one of those fertility statues. If we put one in the garden, the frat would worship it.”