The hospital stay was forty-eight hours.

Dashiell never left. Slept in the chair beside Liora’s bed. Handled every diaper change, every feeding, every moment.

“You should go home. Rest,” Liora said on the second day.

“I am home. Wherever you and Atlas are—that’s home.”

Visitors came and went. Fiammetta, crying with joy. Saskia, bringing balloons and congratulations.

Leander came once. Held Atlas for five minutes. Then left.

“He’s hurting,” Liora said after he’d gone.

“He’ll survive. We all do.” Dashiell was feeding Atlas a bottle, the baby cradled expertly in his arms. “Have you thought about a name? Full name?”

“I thought we’d decided on Atlas.”

“For his first name....