He stood there for another moment, taking in the room, the bassinet, my friend, the baby at my breast, the life he had not known existed.
Then he did something unexpected.
He asked quietly, “Can I see him?”
Not hold.
Not take.
See.
I hesitated. Leo was still feeding, his eyelids fluttering, one tiny hand flattened against my skin. I looked from my son to the man who had once known the sound of my heartbeat in the dark and now stood in my living room like a stranger who shared our child’s face.
When Leo was done, I shifted him upright and lifted the muslin cloth.
Ethan stepped closer.
Very slowly.
His whole body changed when he looked at the baby.
Not softened. That would be too easy a word.
But broken open, maybe.
Leo yawned, made a small snuffling sound, and opened one eye for half a second before falling asleep again. Ethan stared at the tiny nose, the furrow between the brows, the dark lashes.
“He looks…” He stopped.
“Like you?” Maya asked dryly.
He ignored her.
He looked at me instead, and for the first time since he walked through the door, I saw something other than control.
Fear.
“If he’s mine,” he said, low and steady, “everything changes.”
I held his gaze. “It already has.”