Page 64 of Halfway to Hell
Then he just stood there, staring.
He felt like an idiot, rooted in place, but he couldn’t help it. He hadn’t been able to stop looking at their son since the nurse had first handed him over. Every little breath, every tiny movement felt like magic.
Sunday shifted the blanket, peeling it back just enough to get a better look.
“He’s beautiful, Texas,” she said, voice thick with wonder.
His heart ached at the sight of her holding their child. It was real now—all of it.
Texas gently adjusted her arm on the pillow, making sure she was comfortable as she cradled their son. He listened as she spoke, his heart full.
Smiling, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Yes, he is,” he murmured. “The doctors said he’s perfect.”
Sunday nodded, but the weight of reality began to creep in around the edges of their peace. She didn’t want to shatter the moment, not with their son in her arms and Texas right beside her, but she needed to know.
Her voice was quiet, hesitant, “Did the police…”
Texas’s expression changed, soft warmth giving way to something more serious protectiveness. He reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair from her face.
“He’s in jail,” was all Texas said.
His tone left no room for questions. He didn’t want to talk about what had happened—not tonight. The cops would come eventually, would want to hear her version of the story. But for now, all Texas wanted was this; her, safe and awake, and their son sleeping soundly in her arms.
Sunday heard it in his voice—the line he’d drawn, so she didn’t push. Instead, she shifted the moment. “Has your family seen the baby yet?”
He nodded. “For a minute. But no one’s held him except me.”
She looked up at him, surprised.
“I wanted you to be the first,” Texas added softly. “You should be the first.”
Her throat tightened as she looked back down at their son. The weight of everything—what they’d survived, what they now held—settled in.
“Thank you,” she whispered, holding their child just a little closer.
His family had tried everything.Do you need us to hold him? Want us to help? Want us to take him for a bit?All in an effort to pry the baby from his arms. They’d hovered, asked, hinted, even flat-out reached for the little bundle, but Texas hadn’t budged.
Not once.
The one question that came up the most, though, was the baby’s name.What are you calling him?Have you picked yet?Don’t you want to decide before the paperwork’s due?
But Texas had waited. He wasn’t choosing without Sunday.
They’d narrowed it down—two names each for a boy or girl—but they’d left the final call until after the birth.
Now, leaning over the bed so he could get a better look at the baby nestled in Sunday’s arms, Texas asked gently, “What are we calling our little man?”
Sunday kissed the baby’s head, breathing in the warm, sweet scent of newborn skin. Her heart felt like it might burst.
“Let’s use both,” she said softly. “The two we picked for a boy. I can’t choose between them.”
Texas smiled, reaching down to brush a finger over the baby’s cheek. “Both it is.”
Texas liked that idea. “Which one will be his first name?” he asked, smiling, curious which way she’d lean.
Sunday didn’t hesitate. She looked down at their son, her fingers brushing over his blanket. “August Rhys,” she said softly.
Texas nodded, the name settling in his chest like something sacred. “August Rhys,” he repeated, like it already belonged to the boy in her arms. And it did.
