Page 55 of Lady and the Butcher

His jaw eased. He stared straight ahead. “Useful man, after all.”

“Debatable,” I said, but my mouth softened.

A nurse walked through with a tray of warm towels that smelled like heaven. Atticus’s eyes followed her and then returned to me. “How long?”

“Could be twenty minutes. Could be two hours. Babies are rude.”

“I’ll be here,” he said.

I stood. “I know.”

He caught my hand before I could turn. Not hard. Just a hold. “After,” he said, and the word was both question and plan.

“After I wash my hands and drink a gallon of water and text Stephen,” I said. “Yes. After.”

His thumb dragged across my knuckles. A small burn. “Go.”

I did. The rest of the labor folded into a series of yeses that felt like home. Maria roared once, shocked herself, then laughed that tear-wet laugh women do when they realize they are more animal and more holy than they were told. The baby came pink and indignant and perfect. The room softened. We cried a little, because we always do.

I tucked blankets, took a photo with a phone someone shoved at me, cleaned up the ring of peppermint oil a clumsy hand had spilled. I whispered to a new father that he had done his job by existing and not fainting. I kissed Maria’s forehead and told her the truth: you were magnificent.

When I stepped back into the waiting room, Atticus was still there, same posture, same patience. The clock said it had been an hour and change. The air felt different because I was different.

He stood when he saw my face. “How is she?”

“Perfect.” My voice went thick. “They’re all perfect.”

He nodded once, and something in him softened at the edges. He didn’t ask for details that weren’t his. He didn’t make jokes. He just reached for my bag without looking and put the strap over his own shoulder like that had always been his job.

“Home,” he said, and I didn’t correct the word.

We walked past the receptionist, who mouthedcongratulationslike I had birthed the baby myself. We walked into the night. The air pressed a hand to our cheeks like a mother.

In the car, I leaned my head back and let my eyes close. The hum of the tires turned into the rhythm of a contraction in reverse, unwinding. Atticus’s fingers laced with mine on the seat between us. The join looked simple and felt enormous.

“You chose them,” he said. “And you chose me. Both can be true.”

“That’s how I want it,” I said.

“You’ll sleep when I tell you to,” he said.

“Bossy.”

“Accurate,” he said again.

Upstairs, the suite waited with its dark glass and vast water and the dress puddled where I’d dropped it. We stood there and listened to the city breathe.

He stepped behind me. His heat met my back. His mouth found the place below my ear that made me forget geography. The sexual roar that had been forced into a stall came back. I turned in his hands and kissed him, not soft this time. Not a hello. A thank-you with teeth in it. A promise.

He took it. He made a small sound I felt in his throat. He pressed me into the window like he’d been waiting to set the world back on its rails. I hooked my fingers into his shirt at the collar and pulled.

My phone stayed mercifully silent. The bridge shone like a truth.

“Now,” he said, voice rough, forehead to mine. “Where were we?”

“Exactly where you left me,” I said, breathless and sure. “Wanting more.”

“Good,” he said.