“What do we name him?” Rémi crouches down in front of them, at eye level with their new son. His robes, finely woven from a tailor in Montsimmard, pools around his legs, silk shoes scuffing against the stone floor; none of that matters, really. The babe squirms in Zevran’s arms, cooing softly, nuzzling into the warmth he’s swaddled in.

He watches as Rémi lays his cheek against his thigh, a soft look in his eyes as the one-month old falls asleep against his husband’s chest. Adoration for the baby he’d wished for, love for the great big family they’ve accumulated. Outside, he hears the older children whisper and hush each other. The door creaks and wavers slightly as five pairs of eyes peer at them from the outside. They’re quick, he muses, naturally so.

Zevran chews his lip, thinking. What should we name our baby?

In front of him, Rémi reaches out to brush a finger against the infant’s cheek. “-il mio bambino,” he murmurs, “figlia adorata.” Zevran cards a free hand through the now short hair, sees moisture clinging to long dark lashes. Green eyes glassy in the afternoon light. He doesn’t say it, but Zevran can hear it, clear as day.

Our baby.

Our baby.

Oh.

“What about Miyo?”