Epilogue #3
“You are,” I tell her with absolute conviction. “You’re one of the strongest people I know, Daphne. And you’re not alone.”
Her eyes fill with tears. “Will you stay? When she comes? I want you to be the first one to hold her.”
My throat tightens with unexpected emotion. “If that’s what you want, yes. But Zach—”
“He’ll understand…” she says, another contraction cutting off her words. This one is longer, more intense, her face contorting with the effort of bearing down.
The next hour passes in a blur of contractions, coaching, and quiet moments of connection between them. The labor and delivery nurse checks Daphne’s progress, nodding in satisfaction.
“Time to call the doctor,” she announces. “This baby’s ready to meet her family.”
Everything happens quickly after that. The room fills with efficient activity: the doctor arriving, equipment being readied, Daphne being positioned for delivery. Through it all, I stay by her side, one part doctor monitoring her condition, one part family member offering support.
“Big push on the next contraction,” the doctor instructs, positioned at the foot of the bed. “We can see the head.”
Daphne bears down with a primal sound that’s half scream, half grunt. Her hand crushes mine, but I barely notice the pain, too focused on what’s happening.
“That’s it,” the doctor encourages. “The head is out. One more push for the shoulders.”
Daphne summons strength from somewhere deep inside, her entire body tensing with the effort. There’s a moment of resistance, then a sudden release, and a tiny, slippery body emerges into the doctor’s waiting hands.
The cry that follows is the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard. Indignant, powerful, alive. Our daughter announces her arrival to the world with unmistakable determination.
“It’s a girl,” the doctor confirms unnecessarily, lifting the squirming, vernix-covered infant. “Dad, would you like to cut the cord?”
It takes me a moment to realize he’s speaking to me. I step forward on shaky legs, accepting the surgical scissors with hands that suddenly don’t feel like they belong to a doctor. The umbilical cord is surprisingly tough, requiring actual pressure to sever.
And then she’s free, an independent being that’s no longer physically connected to Daphne. The nurse wraps her in a warm blanket before placing her in my arms.
Time seems to stop as I look down at her for the first time. Her face is scrunched and red, eyes squeezed shut against the brightness of the world. A shock of dark hair plasters her tiny head, still damp from birth. She’s the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen.
“Hello,” I whisper, my voice breaking on the simple word. “I’m your dad.”
Her cries soften at the sound of my voice, her little body settling against my chest as if she recognizes me somehow. I count fingers and toes automatically. Ten of each, impossibly small and perfect.
“Xavier,” Daphne calls softly from the bed. “Is she okay?”
I move closer so she can see. “She’s perfect. Absolutely perfect.”
Daphne reaches out a trembling hand to touch the baby’s cheek. “She looks like you,” she says with a tired smile. “Something about the eyes.”
“They’re still blue,” I point out. “All babies have blue eyes at birth.”
“Still,” Daphne insists. “She’s got your look. Thoughtful. Like she’s figuring things out.”
I can’t argue with her, partly because I’m too overwhelmed to form coherent thoughts, and partly because I want so badly for this little one to have some connection to me, even if only in expression.
“Zach should see her,” I say after another moment of shared wonder. “Are you okay if I…”
Daphne nods, exhaustion evident in every line of her body. “Go. Show him his daughter.”
I carry our precious bundle into the waiting area, where Zach paces a worn path in the industrial carpet. He stops mid-stride when he sees me, his eyes immediately fixing on the blanket-wrapped form in my arms.
“Zach,” I say, my voice thick with emotion I can’t even begin to process. “Come meet our daughter.”
He approaches slowly, almost reverently, his usual confident stride replaced by something hesitant and awed. When he peers down at her face, the transformation in his expression steals my breath. All the hardness melts away, replaced by a tenderness I’ve only glimpsed in our most private moments.
“She’s so small,” he whispers, one calloused finger gently touching her cheek.
“Seven pounds, three ounces,” I report. “Twenty inches long. Perfect Apgar scores.”
He smiles at my automatic recitation of medical details. “Can I hold her?”
I transfer our daughter to his arms, showing him how to support her head. Zach, the feared enforcer of the Devil Souls, a man who’s broken bones and ended lives, cradles this tiny infant with more care than I’ve ever seen him show anything.
“Hello, little one,” he says softly, his voice dropping to a register I’ve never heard before, gentle, almost musical. “I’m your dad too. The scary-looking one.”
She squirms slightly, one tiny hand escaping the blanket to wave in the air. Zach offers his finger, and she grasps it with surprising strength, her entire hand barely encircling his fingertip.
“Strong,” he says with unmistakable pride.
His gaze meets mine and I can feel the air being sucked out of my lungs at the look in his eyes.
Shaylin approaches quietly, her usual composure restored. “She’s beautiful,” she says, peering at the baby’s face. “Does she have a name yet?”
Zach and I exchange a look. We’ve discussed dozens of possibilities over the past months, but nothing felt right until this moment.
“Faith,” Zach says with quiet certainty.
The rightness of it settles over me immediately. Faith—what Daphne gave us by trusting us with her child. What we want to give this tiny person in return. What this unexpected family represents for all of us.
“It’s perfect,” I agree. “Faith it is.”
As if in approval, our daughter Faith opens her eyes briefly, unfocused gaze sweeping across the faces surrounding her before closing again, content in her father’s arms.
“Should we take her back to Daphne?” Zach asks after a moment. “Let her know the name?”
I nod, leading the way through the maternity ward, now bustling with more activity as the morning shift begins.
Nurses smile at us as we pass, their eyes softening at the sight of the newborn.
I wonder how many of them recognize me from my time working at this hospital, how many are surprised to see me now, not as a colleague but as a new parent, walking alongside a man wearing a Devil Souls cut.
We find Daphne dozing lightly, her face peaceful in the aftermath of labor. She stirs when we enter, eyes immediately seeking the bundle in Zach’s arms.
“We’ve decided on a name,” I tell her softly, moving to sit on the edge of her bed. “If you approve.”
She pushes herself up slightly, wincing at the movement. “What is it?”
“Faith,” Zach says, carefully transferring our daughter back into Daphne’s waiting arms.
Daphne’s eyes fill with tears as she looks down at the baby. “Faith,” she repeats, testing the name. “It’s perfect. It’s exactly what she is.”
We stay with her while she holds Faith, the four of us existing in a bubble of quiet wonder. Eventually, Daphne’s eyelids grow heavy, the exhaustion of labor claiming her once more despite her best efforts to stay awake.
“We should let you rest,” I say, gently taking Faith from her arms. “We’ll be right outside if you need anything.”
She catches my wrist before I can move away. “Thank you,” she whispers, her eyes intense despite her fatigue. “For everything. For saying yes when I asked and for making this possible.”
“No,” Zach says from beside me, his voice rough with emotion. “Thank you for trusting us with her. With your daughter.”
“Our daughter,” Daphne corrects softly, her eyes already closing. “She’s ours now. All of ours.”
As we leave Daphne to rest, a nurse approaches with paperwork: birth certificate forms, the adoption documents we’ve already filed with the court, hospital release forms for when Faith is cleared to go home. The bureaucracy of new life made more complicated by our unconventional family structure.
“You’ll want to get some rest too,” the nurse advises as she takes Faith to the nursery for her first checkup. “First-time parents need sleep whenever they can get it.”
Zach and I find ourselves in the family waiting area again, suddenly without purpose now that Faith is being cared for by the nursery staff. The adrenaline that carried us through the early morning hours crashes abruptly, leaving me swaying slightly on my feet.
“Come on, Doc,” Zach tells me, guiding me to a couch in the corner. “Let’s sit before you fall down.”
I sink into the cushions, my body suddenly reminding me that I’ve been awake since three forty-seven a.m., after only a few hours of sleep. Zach sits beside me, his arm coming around my shoulders to pull me against his side.
“We’re parents,” I say, the reality of it finally sinking in fully. “We have a daughter.”
He presses a kiss to my temple, his exhale warm against my skin. “Best thing I’ve ever done,” he says simply. “Best thing I’ll ever do.”
I turn to look at him, this man who entered my life like a force of nature, who’s shown me sides of himself few people ever see. The enforcer who now holds our daughter with infinite tenderness. The outlaw who’s built a family through choice rather than blood.
“I love you,” I tell him, the words inadequate for the emotion swelling in my chest. “So much.”
His eyes, usually sharp with awareness of potential threats, are soft now. Vulnerable in a way he shows only to me. “Love you too, X. You and Faith, you’re everything.”
We stay like that, leaning on each other as the morning light strengthens outside the windows. Eventually, my phone buzzes with messages from the clinic, Tiana handling the day’s appointments, and Grey spreading the news to the club.