[Sophie’s POV]

The name comes to us three weeks later, in the middle of a completely unrelated conversation.

We’re making dinner—Cassian handling the main course, Adrian allegedly helping but mostly stealing bites, me supervising from my designated stool because standing for long periods has become uncomfortable. The baby—our daughter—has grown significantly, and with her growth has come backaches and swollen ankles and a constant need to pee.

“What about Eleanor?” Adrian suggests, continuing a debate we’ve been having for days. “It’s classic. Timeless.”

“It’s also my great-aunt’s name, and she was a terrible person.”

“We could use the nickname. Ellie.”

“Ellie is fine, but then why not just name her Ellie?”

“Because names should have layers. Depth.”

“You’re overthinking this.”

Cassian adds something to the pan that sizzles aggressively. “What about something meaningful? A name that represents what she means to us?”

“Like what?” I ask.

“I don’t know. Hope. Grace. Something conceptual.”

“You want to name our daughter Hope?”

“I’m brainstorming. That’s how brainstorming works.”

Adrian snags another bite of whatever Cassian is cooking. “What about naming her after someone? A person who mattered?”

“My mother’s name was Margaret,” I say slowly. “She died when I was twelve.”

Both of them go quiet, turning to look at me.

“You’ve never talked about her much,” Cassian says carefully.

“I know. It’s hard.” I take a breath, feeling the familiar ache that accompanies any thought of my mother. “But I’ve been thinking about it more lately. About what kind of mother I want to be. About the things she taught me before she was gone.”

Adrian moves closer, his hand finding my shoulder. “What was she like?”

“Warm. Patient. She had this way of making everything feel manageable, even when it wasn’t. Like the world could be falling apart and she’d still find a reason to smile.”

“Margaret,” Cassian says, testing the name.

“It feels too formal. Too big for a baby.” I pause, thinking. “But she had a nickname. Maggie. Everyone called her Maggie.”

“Maggie,” Adrian repeats. “I like it.”

“Maggie,” Cassian agrees. “It’s soft. Approachable. But with depth underneath.”

I press my hand to my stomach, feeling the flutter of movement that’s become more pronounced in recent weeks.

“What do you think?” I ask her. “Are you a Maggie?”

There’s a kick—not the first one, but stronger than usual. Definitive.

“I think she likes it,” Adrian says, grinning.

“I think she’s responding to the sound of voices, not the name specifically,” Cassian counters.

“Don’t ruin the moment with science.”

“Science enhances moments.”

I laugh, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep in my chest. “Maggie. Margaret, officially, but Maggie for short.”

“Maggie Ward,” Adrian says.

“Maggie Lewis,” Cassian counters.

They look at each other, and I sense a potential conflict brewing—the question of last names hovering between us, unresolved.

“Maggie Hartwell,” I say firmly. “My name. At least for now. We can figure out the rest later.”

Both of them nod, accepting the decision without argument.

“Maggie Hartwell,” Adrian repeats. “Our daughter.”

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