Wriothesley doesn’t think he’s breathing. The baby—your baby, his baby—is cradled in his arms, sleeping so peacefully he thinks he’s dreaming. He’s too scared to move.

“I don’t want to hurt her,” he whispers to you, but he refuses to let her go. His daughter. Hesitantly, he touches her cheek. She stirs, but doesn’t wake.

His daughter.

He shouldn’t cry. Wriothesley shifts her, looking over at you. “She’s perfect.” He didn’t think it was possible to love someone this much.