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She gives me an exasperated look, as if she’s expecting me to talk some sense into them. But I can’t. “Don’t look at me,” I tell her. “I already told you that you’re a goddess.”

Some of the color returns to her cheeks as she looks down at Justice, his mouth abandoning her teat. She frowns. “Well, that wasn’t very much.”

“It’s okay,” I assure, stroking the shell of his tiny ear. “He’s not going to eat much at first. It’s more about muscle memory at this point.”

She looks at Wicker, a reluctant tilt to her smile. “Do you want to hold him?”

Neither he nor Pace have yet.

Wicker releases a long, tense breath as he reaches for him. Blue eyes dart to mine. “Tell me if I’m doing it wrong.”

Wicker’s palm cradles his head, the other hand tucked under Justice’s body, and then he pulls him into his chest, stiff as he carefully adjusts. “Is this…?”

“You’re good, Wick,” I assure, but stand behind him, directing his arm.

The three of us watch as Wicker settles, gazing nervously down at his son. “What if he starts crying?” he frets. “What if he—” But then Justice’s eyes flutter open, blue meeting blue, and Wicker looksgutted. “So, you’re what all the fuss is about, huh?” His whisper is light but strained with emotion, and when he ducks down to gently brush his lips over Justice’s forehead, Verity, Pace, and I share a long look, understanding the gravity of the moment.

Wicker, the person most afraid of loving something, has been captured, hook, line, and sinker.

“Pace,” he suddenly says, rising to round the bed to his brother. “Your turn.”

But my other brother fidgets, hands buried deep in his pockets. “You sure?” he asks. “You can take some time, Wick.”

Wick just scoffs. “I have a lifetime to be a dad, but we only get to meet our son once. Come on, make the arms.”

Amused by the clumsy directive, Pace holds his arms against his chest, pitching close as Wicker passes Justice into the cradle of his hold. When Wicker steps back, Pacefurls. It’s like his whole body is holding the baby, shoulders both high and curled inward, as if he’s shielding him from something.

Up until this moment, I’ve been pretty well-versed in the field of Pace’s emotions. He’s never been as explosive as Wicker or as composed as me. Pacefeels, but he expresses it tactically.

Nothing about the look on his face right now is tactical.

“I was so worried I’d feel different once I saw him,” he says, voice ragged as he glances up at me. “Like I’d meet him and know he wasn’t mine.”

Verity struggles up in bed, anguish on her face. “Oh, Pace.”

But he grins down at the baby, head shaking. “It’s just the opposite, though,” he says, eyes softening as he takes in Justice’s tired face. “He’s made of you and Wick—two people I love the most. Nothing has ever felt more mine than this.” He looks up at me, eyes both curious and wrecked. “Is it like that for you?”

My chest throbs. “Yeah,” I admit, taking Verity’s hand in mine. “That’s exactly what it’s like.”

Maybe Wick can’t understand it yet, how something they made together can feel so inexplicably linked to us.

Maybe someday he will.

The next morning,Pace and Wick stand outside her room, wrangling a sort of schedule for the string of visitors—from various territories—currently crowding the maternity ward’s lobby.

PNZ gets first dibs.

“Whoa.” Tucking his bouquet of white roses beneath an arm, Rory ducks down to get a good look at Justice, still nestled in Verity’s arms. “He’s got the cutest little chin.”

“I don’t know,” Tommy says, eyes narrowed as he assesses him. “He’s all wrinkly and red and bald. Looks kind of like my grandpa, actually.”

Rory smacks him with the bouquet. “He just came out of aperson.”

Verity gives a tired chuckle, meeting my gaze. “I’m assured he won’t look like a ninety-eight-year-old man forever.”

Shrugging, Tommy places his own bouquet on the pile below the mounted TV. “From me and Heather.”

Verity’s eyebrow ticks up. “Heather sent me flowers?”