Megan appeared behind him. “Support his head.”
“I know,” he said, then immediately added, “Actually, I don’t. Tell me.”
Something in Megan’s expression shifted. Not forgiveness. Not yet. But the faintest softening at the edges, like morning light under a locked door.
She guided his hands. “Here. One hand under his neck. Let him curl into you.”
Ellis was lighter than Rowan expected and heavier than he deserved. The baby’s warmth settled against his chest, startlingly alive. Rowan looked down at the little face twisted with hunger and impatience, and his throat tightened.
“Hi,” he whispered.
Ellis stopped crying for half a breath, just long enough to blink up at him.
Then he wailed louder.
Megan took a bottle from the diaper bag. “He’s not impressed.”
“I don’t blame him.”
She almost smiled.
Rowan sat in the chair by the wall while Megan showed him how to angle the bottle, how to pause, how to watch for the small movements that meant Ellis needed time. His hands trembled at first, but Ellis latched greedily and quieted. The room seemed to settle around the sound of tiny swallows.
