Where do you see yourself in five minutes?
Where do you see yourself in five seconds, Alasia?
Where do you see yourself in fifteen years?
In the darkest part of Surrey a woman marked by struggle and battle and suffering and survival makes her way to...
An: I'm trying something new. Since I got used to writing in first person after my other book Eunoia, it's the one making most sense to me. So after two something years, I'm changing this one to first person as well.
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"I'm not letting you name our boy."
I glare at Sirius so hard, that if looks could kill he'd be severed to pieces, decapitated, twelve feet under and shredded. With how he's struggling to control his smile, he's well aware of the violence swirling in my mind.
"Why. Not."
"You agreed with me naming my bike Wilberforce."
"You're the one who named it!"
"But you agreed, you can't be trusted."
"We can settle on Seth."
Sirius grimaces so hard, I'm closer to hurtling the nearest glass at him than ever. "He's not a European tyrant."
"At least I'm not naming him Leonardo."
"Leo is a constellation," Sirius argues.
"And what the fuck is Leonardo? His great-uncle?"
"I thought just Leo looks too weird, it should be short for something."
"I'll shorten your life span if you name him Leonardo."
We both glare at each other this time, seemingly in some secret, mutual staring match. It's as if should I look away first, he wins. And I hate losing.
Though we both don't have a choice but to whack our heads in a whiplash when a loud cry comes from the tiny crib in the living room.
Sirius and I are both running as fast as our feet will carry us. This little nugget hasn't let us sleep in about three days now and we both have deep dark circles to claim for proof.
My husband reaches him first, picking up the tiniest human I've ever seen in his arms like a professional nurse. Sirius's biceps tighten, the tendons and muscles flexing under his crisp white shirt as he slowly cradles the baby.
I think I might be ovulating already.
I look down in his arms where our son lies. He's beautiful, and not only because I'm a biased mother. He's got a dark brown sprinkling of light hair on his head, pouty lips as pink as candy, eyes the colour of the darkest storms and the cutest tomato-red cheeks that seem to puff out tenfold when he cries.
I look at the two of them, the mild annoyance I had a few moments ago dissolving as Sirius hands me over the baby and I go sit on the softest sofa known to mankind-courtesy of our last name privileges.
My son looks up at me through dark and thick lashes, eyes doe-like and big. Innocent, so pure. And my heart breaks a little at the fact I brought him into this world when there is an ongoing war. Guilt chips away at my soul and Sirius must notice because all of a sudden two strong arms envelope me in their stronghold and safety drowns me in its scent.
