Rebirth: Love me Again

[EVE]

One moment, I was drowning in pain—and the next, everything went quiet, replaced by the loud, beautiful cry of my baby filling the room.

They placed the tiny, wriggling bundle against my chest, right over my heart. And in that instant, I understood what it truly meant to love at first sight.

Everything else faded. The pain. The chaos. The smell of antiseptic. Even the frantic pacing of my brothers just outside the delivery room door.

All I could focus on was the warm, fragile life against my skin, so new and so perfect, curled up like he already knew me.

"Congratulations," the nurse whispered, smiling as she gently covered us both with a soft blanket. "You have a beautiful baby."

I couldn't even speak. My throat was tight, my eyes already stinging with tears. I just stared down at the tiny face, at the little mouth still quivering from that first cry, and the impossibly small hand that curled around the edge of my hospital gown like they didn't want to let go.

I didn't want to let go either.

"Hi, Bean," I whispered, my voice trembling. "I'm your mom."

And just like that, everything shifted.

My world—once filled with doubt and fear and heartbreak—had narrowed down to this single, perfect soul.

I didn't think about Cole. Not yet. Not about what it meant, or what might happen if he ever found out.

In this moment, it was just me and my baby, wrapped together like a secret promise.

A soft knock on the door brought me out of that haze.

"Can we come in?" It was Damien's voice.

I smiled, brushing the tear from my cheek. "Yes. Come meet Bean."

The door creaked open, and one by one, they entered. My family.

Damien came first, a rare softness in his expression as he stepped beside me. He didn't speak, just looked down at the baby in quiet awe. Then he gently touched the tiny hand with his fingertip. The baby gripped it immediately.

Dean burst in next, tripping over his own feet, his phone already out to start recording. "Bean! Welcome to the chaos, kiddo!" he whispered dramatically, wiping away tears as he zoomed in too close.

Dante entered last, his white coat flapping even though he wasn't on duty. He was carrying a tiny stethoscope, as if he didn't trust anyone else to check on the baby. "Let me see him," he said, but his voice cracked halfway through.

My mom stood in the doorway for a moment, covering her mouth with both hands before rushing in. "Oh, sweetheart," she whispered. "You did it."

Dad was on a call, probably still running his empire from the waiting room, but when he entered a moment later, he simply nodded, eyes glistening, and took his place beside me.

It was funny, I thought.

All this time, I had been terrified of being alone. Of raising a child on my own. Of being abandoned and broken again.

But here I was, surrounded by more love than I knew what to do with.

They each took turns holding the baby, fumbling with their arms like the precious bundle might explode at any moment.

Dean cried the most, loudly and unapologetically, while Dante kept wiping invisible germs off the bassinet.

Damien was the quietest. But I caught him looking at my

baby like he was looking at a future he hadn't yet imagined.

"I still can't believe you made a human," Dean sniffled as he passed the baby back. "Like, a whole human."

"I didn't do it alone," I said with a small smile, cradling Bean again.

"Don't even say his name," Damien said, stiffening.

"I wasn't going to."

And I wasn't. Not yet.

Because this moment didn't belong to Cole.

It belonged to Bean.

My baby.

My reason.

That night, after they all left to get some rest—though Dean vowed to sleep on a hospital bench—I sat quietly in my room with just the baby and the soft hum of monitors.

I studied the little face, wondering who they'd grow up to be. Would they have my eyes? My laugh? Cole's stubborn jaw?

I didn't know. But I knew one thing for certain.

I would give this child the best life I could.

Filled with love, with honesty, with warmth and laughter and stupid inside jokes. With overprotective uncles and doting grandparents and a mother who had walked through hell and came out holding his tiny hand.

I traced my finger over his soft cheek. "It's just us now, sweetheart," I murmured. "You and me."

The baby shifted a little, yawning with that impossibly tiny mouth, and I felt it again—that rush of emotion, so full and overwhelming it stole the breath from my lungs.

"I promise," I whispered. "No matter what, you'll never feel unloved. Not one single day."

Outside the window, Frizkiel's lights twinkled like stars. The city that raised me was now the city that welcomed my child.

My heart felt heavy and light all at once.

And I realized, as I pressed a kiss to the baby's forehead, that I wasn't drifting anymore.

I had found my purpose.

My center.

My forever.

I was a mother now.

And for the first time in a long time . . . I felt whole.

As the moonlight spilled softly across the hospital room, I sat there—half-exhausted, half-euphoric—watching my baby sleep in my arms. His tiny chest rose and fell in a rhythm so peaceful it made my own heart slow down, syncing with theirs.

The world outside could wait. The noise, the people, the past—especially the past. Right now, in this quiet cocoon, none of it mattered.

I remembered the ache of losing myself after Cole. The fear of never feeling complete again. The months I spent wondering if I would ever heal.

And yet here I was.

Holding something beautiful I had made from that brokenness. Something innocent. Pure. A beginning born from an end.

A soft knock came at the door again, but I didn't answer right away. I just looked down, brushed a fingertip along my baby's tiny curled fist, and whispered one last thing before I let the world back in.

"You saved me, little one."

And it wasn't a dramatic statement.

It was the truth.

Because sometimes, salvation doesn't come in the form of a grand gesture or a second chance with a lost love.

Sometimes, it comes in a tiny cry, a heartbeat against your chest, and a name not yet chosen—but already loved.