The suite smelled like home, faint traces of Chris's perfume clinging to the curtains, and underneath it all the familiar pulse of Dax's presence now that he wasn't being forced to keep it locked down for cameras and soldiers and runways.
Nero lay in Dax's arms, sleepy and innocent, warm in the way only a nine-month-old could be: heavy enough to acknowledge his too fast growth, soft enough to make the world feel briefly survivable. Dax held him against his chest like he was relearning how to breathe with something precious pressed to his heart.
Nero's small fingers were tangled in the front of Dax's shirt, gripping fabric like a claim.
He'd been a 'mama' child.
Mama when he wanted food. Mama when he wanted comfort. Mama when he wanted to protest being placed in a crib, as if cribs were a personal insult.
Dax had always gotten smiles, quiet gurgles, and the kind of contentment that lived in warm skin and muscular arms, but the word had belonged to Chris.
