Evening collected itself along the hospital windows, turning the glass the colour of steeped tea.
A nurse with a kind smile tapped the doorframe. "Visiting hours are closing soon, I'm afraid."
Amelia looked up from the armchair where she sat pressed against Alexander's knee, their son asleep across his chest. She searched his face—colour better than yesterday, eyes steady, the faint bruise at his temple paling by degrees—and felt the warm, almost dizzying rush of gratitude again.
"I'll bring him back tomorrow," she whispered.
"You'd better," he said, mock-stern, then softened. "Go safely."
Amelia kissed his cheek, then the soft crown of their son's head, and lifted the baby into the pram with the practiced economy she'd learned in forty-eight hours. The little one grimaced, then surrendered to sleep. Alexander stood, just to brush his knuckles over the baby's blanket, the gesture reverent.
"Thank you for coming," he said, voice low.
"We live here now," she teased, and he laughed—slow, careful, gorgeous.
In the corridor, the nurse tucked an envelope into Amelia's tote. "Discharge information for Dad, updates from Dr. Patel. And I put the ward's direct line on a sticky note. If you need us—any time."
"Thank you," Amelia said, meaning it with her whole self.
Downstairs, the Harrington driver was already waiting by the entrance, cap lifted in greeting. He took the pram with gentle hands while Amelia gathered the nappy bag. A cold edge threaded the evening air; the city breathed in light and bus engines and a feeling of normal life returning.
"Home, Ms. Bennett?" he asked.
"Yes, Thomas. Thank you." She smiled. "And slowly, please. We're made of spun sugar right now."
He grinned. "Understood."
The ride was quiet and golden. Streetlamps turned the wet road into ribbons, shopfronts blinked awake, a woman in a bright scarf shepherded a child across at the lights. Amelia sat angled toward the infant car seat, one palm resting over the baby's blanket, counting the gentle rise and fall without meaning to.
Her phone buzzed the moment the car pulled into the drive.
ALEXANDER: You're home?
AMELIA: Just parked. We miss you already.
ALEXANDER: Ridiculous. I miss you more.
AMELIA: Impossible. Call you in 20? Bottle, bath, bribe our landlord (tiny and demanding).
ALEXANDER: Approved. I'll be at my post.
She laughed—silently, for the sleeping tyrant—then followed Thomas inside. The house still smelled faintly of lavender and the flowers HR had sent: white tulips in a clean glass vase on the hall table like a promise that the world had manners again.
"Anything else, Ms. Bennett?" Thomas asked, setting the pram brake.
"We're good. Thank you." She hesitated. "Will you be on tomorrow? I'd like to go in again during visiting hours."
"Of course," he said, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. "Send me a time."
Evenings at home found their own rhythm quickly, as if the house had been rehearsing.
She sterilised bottles; the kettle hummed; the baby made those small, thoughtful sounds newborns make, like he was dictating notes to the air. She texted her mother—we're back, safe; will call after bath—and rolled up her sleeves.
Warm water, cotton pads, the quiet ritual of cleaning each perfect crease. A fresh nappy. The tiny white sleepsuit with the clouds that Emma had insisted on buying, "for luck." The baby yawned, considered the ceiling, and allowed the proceedings with the weary dignity of a very small aristocrat.
"Thank you for your cooperation, sir," Amelia said gravely.
He blinked. She pretended he'd winked back.
She warmed the bottle, the test-drop on her wrist felt like a brand-new kind of science, then she settled into the corner of the sofa, city light pooling on the rug, and fed him. The sounds—small gulps, contented sighs—were church bells to her.
Phone: 21:02. Time to call.
She propped the handset against a stack of folded muslins and hit video.
Alexander answered almost immediately. He was in the chair by the window, hair damp from a supervised shower, a hospital T-shirt traded for a soft navy sweater. He looked a little more human, a little more like the man she loved—except for the new light behind his eyes.
"Hi," he said, and the word gathered all the distance and erased it.
"Hi." She tipped the camera. "We're eating."
He clasped a hand to his chest. "My son is the picture of civilisation."
"He spat in my hair earlier," she said.
Alexander smiled. "My son is the picture of leadership."
They talked like people who hadn't slept and never would again: about nothing and everything. Dr. Patel had increased his corridor laps. The night nurse had smuggled in two shortbread biscuits and declared them contraband. HR had emailed to extend Amelia's leave without her asking—Margaret with a line that read, Family first. We'll cover. No questions.
Amelia swallowed around the unexpected lump. "She's a good woman."
"She is," he said simply. "Good found us."
For a few minutes, they were quiet—watching the baby's lashes flutter, listening to the soft click of the radiators, and the world turning like it does when you're finally allowed to notice.
"Shall we talk about names?" he asked gently.
Her heart tripped. "We can start."
He reached off-screen, lifted a folded sheet of hospital notepaper, and smiled, caught. "I made a list."
"You made a list," she echoed, indulgent.
"Don't mock the concussed." He cleared his throat, performative. "Arthur. Elliot. James. Theo."
She tilted her head. "Oliver. Noah. Gabriel." A pause. "Finn."
He tasted them quietly, like wine. "Say yours again."
"Oliver."
He watched their son. "He looks like an Oliver when he's pretending not to smile."
"He does," she said, surprised. "He really does."
"James?" he tried.
She shook her head, smiling. "That's your middle name. He'd have to wear cufflinks at playgroup."
"Could be worse," he said, mock-wounded. "He could be Reginald CEO Harrington."
She snorted, then clapped a hand over her mouth as the baby startled. "You're outrageous."
He sobered, warmth in his voice. "Elliot?"
She felt it—a soft click, not final, but true. "I liked Elliot."
"We don't have to decide tonight," he said. "We can live with them for a few days. See what he tells us."
Amelia nodded. "He's already telling us plenty."
As if on cue, the baby turned his head, done with dinner, and produced a burp that would have impressed a rugby crowd. Amelia and Alexander froze, then fell apart laughing—the helpless, delirious laughter of brand-new parents.
"Margaret would be proud of the projection," Alexander said. "He's boardroom-ready."
"He is not going to your boardroom," she said, trying—and failing—to look stern.
"We'll see," he murmured, smiling like the sky had finally done something right.
After the call, the house settled deeper. She texted her mother again—call in the morning; we're good—and carried the baby upstairs. The nursery smelled faintly of cedar and milk and the candle she hadn't lit in months. She lowered him into the cot, adjusted the white blanket, and smoothed a fingertip across his brow.
"Goodnight, maybe-Elliot," she whispered. "Goodnight, Oliver-if-you-insist. Goodnight, Theo-in-a-pinstripe one day."
He sighed, small and sincere, and let the night have him.
Downstairs, the phone buzzed once more. An audio message from Alexander.
She pressed play.
His voice—low, careful, a little rough—filled the room. "For when you're both too awake and too tired. Close your eyes. Breathe. The world is new and you built it. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
Amelia sat on the stairs where she was, halfway between floors, halfway between who she'd been and who she was now, and let herself cry—quietly, gratefully, like a person who has been handed back everything that mattered.
When she could move again, she went to the kitchen, wrote a note on the back of a shopping list, and tucked it into the baby's memory box with the hospital tags.
First week, first night we laughed.
Dad made a list of names.
You burped like a champion.
We were so, so happy.
Her phone lit—the last message of the day.
ALEXANDER: Dream of me. Tomorrow at two. I'll walk to the door to meet you.
AMELIA: We'll race you. Spoiler: we'll win.
She set the phone on the sideboard, turned off the lamp, and let the dark be kind. Upstairs, a new human slept. Across the city, a man learned how to measure time in corridor lengths and the distance between a hospital bed and a door.
Between them, a name waited patiently, and the quiet season did what it always does when you finally let it: it held.