Page 26

The moment Leo’s body goes rigid with the final contraction, every alpha instinct I possess locks onto one singular focus: my omega, my child, this moment that will split my existence into before and after.

“One more push, Leo,”

the doctor coaches, and I tighten my grip on his hand, letting him squeeze until I’m certain bones will crack. The pain is nothing compared to the overwhelming surge of protective fury that floods my system as Leo bears down with a sound that’s pure determination mixed with agony.

“You’ve got this,”

I murmur against his ear, my free hand stroking sweat-dampened hair back from his forehead.

“She’s almost here, love. Almost here.”

The endearment slips out without permission, but Leo doesn’t flinch. If anything, he leans into my touch, drawing strength from the contact as his body works to bring our daughter into the world.

Then suddenly there’s a rush of movement, Dr. Martinez’s triumphan.

“Here she comes,”

and the most incredible sound I’ve ever heard—tiny, outraged cries that announce our child’s arrival with unmistakable authority.

“She’s here,”

the doctor says, lifting a small, perfect form that makes my chest constrict with emotion so intense I can barely breathe.

“Congratulations, gentlemen. You have a beautiful daughter.”

My daughter. Our daughter. The reality hits me suddenly, stealing whatever composure I’ve managed to maintain throughout labor. She’s real, she’s here, she’s absolutely perfect, and she’s ours.

They place her on Leo’s chest immediately, skin to skin contact that makes him sob with relief and joy.

The next hour passes in a blur of medical procedures and paperwork, but I’m only peripherally aware of it all. My focus remains split between Leo and our daughter—monitoring his recovery, making sure he’s comfortable, while simultaneously cataloging every detail of her tiny perfection.

Leo watches me handle each task with an expression I can’t quite read, exhaustion mixed with something that might be gratitude.

“Your Mom said she’s stuck in traffic,”

I tell him as I settle into the uncomfortable chair beside his bed. Our daughter sleeps in the clear plastic bassinet, swaddled in hospital blankets, completely oblivious to how thoroughly she’s rearranged our universe.

“She just kept saying ‘early but healthy, that’s what matters.’”

“What about your parents?”

Leo asks quietly, shifting to find a more comfortable position.

I pause in my adjustment of the chair’s position.

“I’m not close to them. They’ve never shown much interest in me. I’ve not spoken to either of them in years.”

Leo’s eyes soften slightly.

“I’m sorry.”

I shrug.

“It doesn’t matter.”

Our daughter chooses that moment to wake with a soft cry that has both of us immediately alert. Leo struggles to sit up, still recovering from birth, and I’m on my feet before he can fully right himself.

“Let me,”

I murmur, lifting her carefully from the bassinet. She’s so small, so fragile, but she settles immediately against my chest, her cries subsiding to soft whimpers.

“There we go, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

“She’s hungry,”

Leo observes, noting the way she’s rooting against my shirt.

“Should I bring her to you?”

I ask, but he’s already shifting, making room on the narrow hospital bed.

“Both of you,”

he says simply.

“There’s room.”

I settle carefully beside him, our daughter cradled between us as Leo guides her to nurse. The intimacy of the moment—the three of us together, Leo feeding our child while I support them both—threatens to overwhelm me completely.

“I can’t believe she’s real,”

Leo murmurs, stroking her dark hair as she feeds.

“I still can’t believe she’s actually here.”

“She’s perfect,”

I reply, because it’s the only truth that matters.

“Absolutely perfect.”

We sit in comfortable silence, watching our daughter nurse with the focused intensity of a tiny person who knows exactly what she wants. Leo’s scent has changed since the birth. It’s somehow richer and warmer. It makes my alpha hindbrain purr with approval.

“,”

Leo says quietly, not looking away from our daughter.

“Thank you. For today. For being exactly what I needed.”

The simple words hit harder than any declaration of love.

“You don’t need to thank me for being here for my family.”

He does look at me then, something vulnerable in his expression.

“Is that what we are? A family?”

The question hangs between us. Looking at Leo holding our daughter, feeling the weight of her warm body against my chest, breathing in the scent of my omega and our child, the answer is the simplest thing in the world.

“Yes,”

I say without hesitation.

“We’re a family.”

Leo’s smile is soft, tired, but genuine.

“Good. That’s... good.”

Our daughter finishes nursing and Leo passes her to me for burping, the transfer so natural it feels like we’ve been doing this for years instead of hours. She settles against my shoulder with a contented sigh, and I find myself swaying slightly, some ancient parental instinct taking over.

“You’re good at this,”

Leo observes, settling back against his pillows.

“Beginner’s luck,”

I reply, but the praise warms something deep in my chest.

“Though I should probably learn to change diapers quickly.”

Leo laughs, the sound tired but happy.

“We’ll figure it out together.”

I catch Leo watching us from the bed. His expression is soft, unguarded in a way I haven’t seen before.

“What?”

I ask quietly.

“Nothing,”

he murmurs, but his eyes stay fixed on us.

“Just... watching you with her. You’re going to be a good father, .”

The words lodge somewhere behind my sternum, warm and precious.

“So are you.”

“I hope so.”

He shifts slightly, making room on the bed again.

“Bring her here again? I want to hold you both.”

I settle beside him carefully, our daughter cradled between us, and Leo’s arm comes around my shoulders, pulling me closer. The position should be awkward on the narrow hospital bed, but instead it feels perfect. Complete.

“What should we call her?”

I ask softly, stroking one tiny fist with my fingertip.

Leo is quiet for a long moment, studying our daughter’s sleeping face.

“I always liked Emma,”

he says finally.

“It means ‘whole’ or ‘universal.’ Seems appropriate for someone who’s brought us all together.”

“Emma Thorndike-Torres,”

I test the name, liking how it sounds.

“Emma Torres-Thorndike?”

“Either way,”

Leo says with a small smile.

“As long as she’s ours.”

Ours. The possessive pronoun settles something that’s been restless in my chest since the moment I found out that Leo was pregnant. This isn’t just my daughter or his daughter—she’s ours, completely and thoroughly, the product of a love that began in conflict and grew into something unshakeable.

“Emma it is,”

I agree, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead, then another to Leo’s temple.

“Emma Torres-Thorndike. Our little revolutionary.”

Leo’s laugh is soft, fond.

“She’s definitely going to be trouble. Look at her parents.”

“The best kind of trouble,”

I reply, tightening my arms around both of them.

“Get some sleep,”

I murmur as Leo’s breathing starts to even out.

“I’ll watch her.”

“Mmm,”

he hums, already drifting.

“Love you both.”

The words are soft, probably said without full consciousness, but they settle in my chest.

He just said he loves me. Maybe it’s the leftover hormones from the birth. Maybe it’s real. Right now, I don’t care. I’m going to take it.