It hits him all at once. He stares at the black x's lined up neatly down two pages of the calendar, counts them again. Forty-two.

"Père..." Rebecca pulls on his leg. "Don't you want t' play with us?" Her pout will be as devastating as Rogue's when she's all grown up.

But now...

"In a minute, p'tite."

Remy lets the calendar slide out of his fingers and draws in a shaky breath.

This is real.

His gut says, too easy, too soon. His head says, already a father, no different. His heart feels like something hit it—very, very hard.