A massive thank you to Aurora2020 who has been the beta on each and every chapter of this fic. xoxoxox

Epilogue

There are days when I've spent the better part of a year away from those I love. Those are the bad days. The days I wonder if I'll miss Christmas, again. Or another birthday. I wonder if she will keep waiting for me at all.

But she waits. She always waits.

Sometimes patiently. Sometimes not.

Then there are the good days, the ones that are so good, they outweigh the bad.

Days when I'm a week into extended shore leave and I'm preparing the batter, ladling it onto the griddle pan in wide, flat lumps.

Your mom sits on the couch, Hollow has curled his body into a tight snail beside her, her feet rest atop, bare toes run back and forth absentmindedly in his fur as she reads. She looks up from her book, and her eyes connect with mine, into my soul, and I still get chills down my arms like I'm fifteen.

"Why is this so hard? There are so many options and I don't like any of them," she laments.

"They can't possibly all be bad."

I watch the tiny bubbles form on the pancakes, coating the entire surface before taking the spatula and flipping them one at a time. One flip misses and drips its innards over the side of the pan, it crusts and burns.

I wonder if you'll like pancakes?

"Yes, they can."

She rubs her hand across her ballooned belly, smoothing her fingers back and forth, she's searching for you in there, wondering who you are, who you'll be.

It doesn't really matter; she loves you already.

"Layla?" she asks, nose scrunched up, unsure, but continues reading.

'Of Egyptian and Arabic origins, it can mean 'wine,' 'intoxication,' 'night,' or 'dark beauty'. Popularized by Eric Clapton's 1970 hit song 'Layla.'"

"Good song. Stellar guitar riff. Not sure about the name though."

She nods. You're not a Layla.

"What does Veronica mean?" I ask.

She flicks through the pages, a sliver of a pink tongue concentrating, eyes flicking back and forth, scanning the page.

"Veronica: Latin for Truth."

I laugh animatedly, clutching at my abdomen. Your mom throws me a cautionary glare with a dusting of a smile.

She does that a lot. You'll get used to it.

"Well, if it's a boy, it must be Logan II, no question," I say.

She snorts, which is easy to do when eight months pregnant and your perfect little body is pushing all her organs into her chest cavity. She snorts and snores, quite a bit lately.

But don't tell her I said that.

"So, if it's a boy, we'll just call him Logan Jr.? Or just Junior?"

With a dramatic eye roll, she continues to flick through her book.

"Logan: derived from the Scottish Gaelic lagan, which is a diminutive of lag, which in turn, means 'hollow'."

She stops reading and looks at the dog underfoot. I peel up my head from the crucial final seconds of pancake-watch and laugh out loud.

"No wonder he loves you so much, you have the same name!"

"Hey, I didn't name him!"

"Neither did I!"

We laugh together, bemused and Hollow cracks a dark brown eye open briefly, wondering why we were disturbing his mid-morning reverie. I'm not sure Hollow is sufficiently prepared for the swift change in lifestyle that will happen when you come into this world. But I think he'll adapt.

Our chuckles abate, and your mom continues with the book in silence. I turn off the stove, slather on pats of butter, pour gratuitous amounts of maple syrup onto the pancakes, and take them to her, resting them on her belly.

On you.

"They look extra fluffy today."

This is how your mom says, 'thank you.'

Positioning myself next to Hollow, I lay my hand on her rounded stomach, letting my fingers dance lazy lullabies on her skin. I wonder if you can feel them?

I am anchored into the future that is given shape by your little life growing inside her. I'm getting impatient. I'm ready to meet you. I'm ready to be your dad.

"Madeline Echolls, Maddi Echolls," Veronica repeats it, as if rolling it off her tongue, checking the mouthfeel. The fact that it isn't an instant veto makes me sure that it's a contender.

The book is soon discarded on the coffee table in favor of breakfast. She lifts her fork and uses it to cut the flesh of the pancake stack, then mops the syrup. Under eyelashes, blue eyes hit brown, a smile and a smirk are exchanged. Leaning across Hollow, I snatch a syrup laced kiss between forkfuls.

You'll need to get used to that.

Life isn't a fairytale. There are ups and downs. When a perpetually snarky man lives with a perpetually stubborn woman, occasionally we can disagree. And that's okay, because then we get to make-up and sometimes that's the best part. But we promise to do our best, we'll work at it each and every day.

Because it's worth it, she's worth it. Maybe I'm even worth it.

And of course, my love, you're worth it.