One month later the procedure was perfectly coordinated, and the first son of the royal couple came into the world with lungs strong enough to take Chris's hearing away.
Chris had been awake for it, like he'd demanded, numb from the chest down, draped and monitored and surrounded by people who moved with the competence of a team that had rehearsed this moment until, for them, it was only duty.
It still felt like a miracle for Chris and Dax.
The surgical lights were too bright, the air too cold, and someone had kept trying to soothe him with a tone that sounded suspiciously like they were speaking to a skittish animal. Chris had remained calm in the face of chaos because that is what he does.
But there was a difference between calm and untouched.
There was a moment, right before they began, when Nadia leaned close enough that Chris could hear her without effort.
"Breathe," she said, simple and firm.
Chris's eyes flicked toward her. "I am breathing."
