It was Exile, in the end. He filled the doorway the way he always did, shoulders too wide for the frame, coils of dark muscle shifting low and quiet beneath the human shape he wore indoors. He had a bundle against his chest, small and squirming, one clawed hand cupped with a gentleness that never failed to catch her somewhere soft and unguarded.
"She won't settle," he said, his voice came out low, worn thin at the edges, amber eyes heavy-lidded but locked on Felicity like she was the only fixed point left in the room. "Wants you."
Felicity's ears came up, tired fatigue burning off fast at the sound. "Give her here."
Dimitri was on his feet before Exile had crossed the threshold, red gaze snapping to the baby in his arms, cataloguing—no fever flush, no distress in the little face, just the crumpled, furious scowl of a cub who'd decided sleep was beneath her. He didn't reach to take her. He just hovered, close enough that.
