"He's talking," Frost breathed, watching Teddy babble his way through another round of nonsense as he army-crawled with grim determination toward the nearest lap. "Is he saying words?"
"He's saying everything," Felicity said, watching her son plant one fat hand in a bowl of tarts and shove the whole mess toward his mouth with a triumphant mamamammama.
Around her, the whole of Snow Team dissolved into helpless laughter, reaching to catch him, to hold him, to keep him close, and she thought—yes. Yes, this. Worth every scar, every scream, every drop of blood on white sheets. This, right here, was the whole reason.
Voss got there first, scooping Teddy off the blanket before he could face-plant into the tarts a second time. The cub shrieked with delight, jam-sticky fingers finding it fun to yank his father's hair.
"Look at him." Voss's tone had gone soft and stupid in a way she'd only heard from him when it was just them. "Look at this face. He's got my humour already, I swear it."
