Arion had been standing by the window for almost twenty minutes when he finally admitted that he was avoiding looking at his son.
The private neonatal room had gone quiet sometime after midnight, with most of the overhead lights switched off and only the softer illumination around Theodore's monitors remaining, turning the polished floor silver beneath the equipment. Beyond the window, the imperial medical gardens were dark except for the lamps following the stone paths, while Roslew stretched farther beyond them in scattered gold lights beneath the summer night.
Dean was asleep in the medical bed behind him.
Theodore slept too, returned to the neonatal cot beside Dean after several hours against his parents, one tiny hand curled near his cheek beneath the cream blanket Minerva had insisted on bringing.
Arion could see their reflections in the glass.
His mate.
His son.
Everything he had wanted.
