Your nursery colors were green and yellow. It was calming, and neutral but not gray. There were little dragonflies embroidered into the curtains, and flowers on the rug, and vintage children's book art hanging on the walls. Jack kept his nephew’s first ever hockey stick leaning against the bookshelf, barely two feet long, determined to get your little baby out on the ice as soon as possible.

You liked it in there. It was nice. You could sit in the cushy armchair with your feet up, breeze blowing in through the open window, making the dragonflies fly. It was a right side better than suffocating on your back in a sweltering bed under the weight of your baby. And sometimes, on hard days, you looked over into the empty crib and pictured a little red haired infant, fast asleep under the galaxy mobile.

Jack often found you asleep in there. Sometimes he found you awake, and you would say, “Oh, hun, now that you’re here, mind folding these hand me downs we got from Dana?”

But not anymore. The nursery was done, painted, dried, decorated, and stocked with anything you could need. The cot in your room was set up, along with a cart of midnight postpartum essentials, of which you got a list from every childbearing woman in your life. You had pounds of frozen meals ready in the freezer. You had decided on names. You had deep cleaned and decluttered the entire apartment from head to toe. You were absolutely ready.

In every way but the physical, of course. Every appointment you had, it was firm, undilated cervix, sitting high, and perfectly healthy. You were incredibly grateful the baby was healthy, but by week forty, you would have been almost as grateful to hear any note of progress.

But nada. Zip. No action.

You tried to stay positive, to remind yourself how lucky you were to be making it to term. Hadn’t you seen dozens of preemies in your line of work, who needed extensive, invasive care or worse, who didn't make it at all?

No matter how guilty it made you feel, though, you couldn’t quite help the annoyance that crept into your brain more and more with each day you spent still pregnant. You were truly becoming the stereotype of the angry pregnant lady, waddling around with a scowl, complaining about sweat, and not being able to see your toes.

“I hate this,” you said, two days after your due date. “The baby is healthy, the baby is ready, I’m certainly ready, so what’s the fucking hold up?”

You had had your forty week check up just that past Wednesday, where Jill was too happy to report that your cervix was wide, thick, and hard as a rock.

“I’m sorry,” said Dana, looking up from her charts. “Sometimes the baby just comes on their own damn schedule. You better get used to that.”

You grunted, pulling at your scrubs. Dana’s lips quirked in sympathy.

“Why don’t you head home?” she said. “There’s only an hour left in the shift, and you can start your maternity leave at forty weeks, can’t you? I’m sure Gloria couldn’t fault you for that if she got a look at you.”

“No way,” you said, slamming your computer keys harshly. “Jack’s taking twelve months off when the baby comes, only three of those are paid, and I need to save.”

“You’re fine,” Dana dismissed. “Jack has spent the last decade and a half making doctor money, taking overtime, and never taking a day off. He buys the same t-shirts and jeans every few years, toiletries, food, and that’s pretty much it. I know that guy’s got savings.”

“Yeah, I know, but I still —” you cut yourself off with a sharp gasp.

Your muscles were tightening, cramping more than you’d ever felt before. Dana took off her glasses.

“Woah,” you said, as the pain spread from the front to your back. “That’s new.”

“Braxton hicks?” asked Dana cautiously.

You shook your head.

“I don’t think so,” you breathed, rubbing your belly. “No, this is — worse.”

Dana rolled her chair right up next to yours, swiveling you to be knee to knee. She had an excited glint in her eye.

“Do you think, possibly, it could be…?”

You tried not to smile too wide. The pain was worse than it had ever been, but you could still talk through it.

“I don’t know, maybe,” you said. “D’you think?”

“Why not?” she said. “Start timing them!”

You pulled out your phone, fingers shaking slightly in excitement.

“Sixty-two seconds,” you said when it was done. “It lasted sixty-two seconds.”

“Good start,” said Dana, patting your knee. “Keep track of ’em, and who knows. The betting board might be cleared by this time tomorrow.”

It took everything in you not to squeal from pure excitement. You rested your phone open next to your computer, trying to focus back on work. Your eyes frequently flicked over to it, checking the time. It was five, ten, fifteen minutes before anything else happened. The same clenching pain, spreading from front to back, rolled over you.

“Another minute,” you said happily to Dana when that too had passed. “Sixty-four seconds, that time.”

“Want anything, kid?” she asked. “Heating pads, tylenol?”

“No thanks,” you said. “They’re not too bad yet.”

By the third contraction, Jack was walking through the door.

“Jack!” you said loudly, attempting to jump up, getting halfway through the motion, and sitting back down. “Jackie, a contraction!”

His face changed instantly from warm fondness, to worried shock. He picked up his pace, hurrying around the partition to kneel in front of you. His eyes were wide.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “How long?”

“One minute, with fifteen in between,” you said, showing him your phone. “What do we do? Should I go home now?”

He took your phone, thinking.

“Why don’t I give you a ride,” he said finally. “You can shower and eat, in case this is the real thing. How’s that sound?”

You thought it sounded good, starving and grimy as you were, so you gave everyone your excited goodbyes, loaded into his car, and went home. It took some convincing to get Jack to leave you. You had to remind him that he was scheduled to work in about fifteen minutes, and Robby wouldn’t be happy if he wasn’t there for shift change, before he kissed you goodbye.

You almost relished in the ache as you started your shower, positioning your phone right outside the door. You were so desperate for this pregnancy to end, you could work through the pain. As you were rinsing conditioner from your hair, another contraction started to hit. But as you reached through the glass door to document it, you saw that the timer read twenty minutes and counting.

Twenty minutes. The contractions had gone from fifteen minutes apart, to twenty. That wasn’t that unusual, was it? Things could be irregular in the beginning, but it would even out, right? But as you heated up some pasta for dinner, the increments between episodes became longer and longer. When a whole hour had passed without one, you knew it had been a false start.

Your heart was sinking as you texted Jack.

Contractions slowed down :( I don’t think it’s happening

His bubble popped up almost immediately.

I’m sorry honey. Want me to bring you waffles from Rosie’s in the morning?

You smiled.

You know me too well

You went to bed that night disappointed, but determined. You were starting to second guess your assessment that the cramps weren’t braxton hicks, but whatever they were, it was a first. It meant progression.

The next day at work you did some home remedy research. Castor oil was a no go, for obvious reasons, but there were still plenty of non medicinal measures that couldn’t hurt to try.

“Spicy foods, curb walking, uphill sprints,” Javadi read over your shoulder as you showed the list to Robby. “Dates, raspberry leaf tea…”

“You don’t really think any of these work, do you?” said Robby skeptically.

You glared at him.

“Until you have to start wearing adult diapers because you pee a little every time you bend down, kindly keep your opinions to yourself, Michael,” you said, and Javadi tried to stifle her snort. “That just cost you lunch. I require one extra hot jalfrezi with chicken.”

He didn’t dare argue, just snapped his mouth shut and went to make the order with his tail between his legs.

After your eye watering meal, one bite of which had Robby red as a tomato and wheezing into a straight mug of creamer, you decided to take a trip outside. You took Victoria with you, partly because the possibility of falling down and not being able to get back up was high, but also because the terror in her eyes every time you wobbled was slightly amusing.

You walked along the curb in the ambulance bay for as long as you could justify being away from the hub. By the end of it, you were panting, exhausted, and didn’t feel any closer to labor. You huffed and puffed your way slowly back inside, Javadi trailing awkwardly behind you.

“Any luck?” asked Dana.

You could only shake your sweaty head.

“Not yet,” you said, texting Jack, “but you never know.”

Please get dates!!!

A few hours later, when he was awake, he responded.

The fruit?

You rolled your eyes.

Obviously the fruit

He sent you back a thumbs up.

No one was convinced at the efficacy of your little tricks, but they all wished you luck as you waddled out to Jack’s truck. You could tell, as you updated him, that Jack had doubts of his own, but he was smart enough to stay silent while you munched on your dates.

“They’ll work,” you said. “They have to.”

Sure enough, later that night as you bounced on your yoga ball, you felt a now familiar sensation at the base of your belly.

“Fucking finally!” you said to no one in particular, perhaps Romeo where he lay snoozing on the couch.

You called Jack, and he answered on the second ring.

“What’s up?”

“Tell Robby he’s an idiot,” you said smugly. “Guess what I’m having right now?”

“A contraction?” he said. “Really?”

“Really,” you said. “It’s only the first one, but I just wanted to let you know to keep your phone close.”

But it seemed you sounded the alarms a bit too soon. The same contractions, now two minutes long, still fifteen apart, kept you up until one in the morning. They were helped by some nasty heartburn, no doubt from your ambitious spice level at lunch, but soon enough, they began to subside.

You groaned as you texted Jack.

Don’t say anything to Robby, the contractions have stopped >:(

He’s still an idiot though

At the very least, you had the day off. The last thing anyone needed was you, forty weeks pregnant, and running on five hours of sleep. By the time you woke up, Jack was beside you, snuffling snores.

The third night you felt contractions coming on, you were hardly as excited. You had Jack time them, but, as you expected, they fizzled out around midnight.

Each night, around seven or eight, contractions would start. Then, like clockwork, between the hours of twelve and one, they stopped. You wanted to pop a pill and go to bed, not bothered tracking something that was surely temporary, but Jack insisted.

“You never know when it could be the real deal!”

But it wasn’t the real deal, night after night. You were a zombie at work, snappy and grouchy, so much so that by the time you were forty weeks and five days, you were kicked out.

“You’re gonna regret this, Dana,” you growled as Jack pulled you towards the parking lot. “You’re gonna rue the day!”

With your newfound freedom away from the hospital, you kept up with your activities. Though, not the spicy food. That you’d learned your lesson from. Your days were filled with curb walking, dates, and teas. At least two hours a day you sat on your ball and pumped. You had even had sex every night, though it was hardly sexy. You couldn’t really move, so Jack had to prop up your hips with two pillows. It was helped, however, by Jack himself. You’d never seen the man so insatiable as when you were pregnant.

By the time you made it to your forty-one week appointment, you were itching for progress. You kept your fingers crossed tightly, hoping against hope as Jill performed her exam.

“You’re about one centimeter dilated,” said Jill apologetically.

You let out a helpless cry. Jack rubbed your shoulders.

“It’s still an improvement,” he reminded you.

“And you’ve softened a bit,” said Jill. “Most importantly, you’ve still got a good amount of amniotic fluid, so baby’s okay. I would like to do an NST, just because you’re past due. I’d also just like to offer you induction. It is typically recommended at this point—”

“No thank you,” you said firmly. “I’ve only heard horror stories, uterine ruptures, infection, hemorrhage —”

“I know you know how unlikely those things are, so I won’t tell you,” said Jill gently. “I figured you would say that, but how do you feel about a membrane sweep?”

“Great, amazing, do it now,” you said, and she chuckled.

The membrane sweep was certainly uncomfortable, but not exactly painful. Once it was over, you were strapped in for an NST and Jill tried to reassure you.

“It’ll probably be any day now,” she said. “Hopefully things will progress quickly from here, but if they don’t there are things you can do to help.”

“Curb walking? Spicy foods? Sex? Dates? Yeah, we’ve done them all,” you sighed. “Just tell me — how do I tell the difference between prodromal contractions and real contractions?”

Jill looked regretful.

“Oftentimes, you can’t,” she said. “You just have to keep monitoring, and wait for them to get closer together.”

All in all, it was a blue sort of afternoon. Even a big cookie from your favorite bakery wasn’t able to cheer you up. Upon returning home, you draped yourself over Jack on the couch. He practiced his braiding on you while you watched Law & Order, snacking on dates. You were beginning to become sick of them.

As planned, contractions started rolling in around nine. At first, they were average, easily breathed through. Then, they started to pick up. Not in duration, but in severity. Jack pulled your new braids away from your face as you hunched in on yourself, tense and unfortunately moist.

“Honey?” he asked. “Tell me what you’re feeling.”

“Bad,” you gasped. “Worse.”

“Okay,” he said, stroking your forehead. “Do you want to sit on your ball?”

You managed a nod, so he helped transfer you over to the blue ball. You started moaning, rolling your hips in great circles while he clutched your hands from his seat on the coffee table. As the clock struck half past one, he dared to speak.

“You know, if it’s this bad,” he said quietly, “maybe —”

“Don’t say it,” you snarled. “Don’t even think it.”

You were past the point of foolish hope. Without at five hours of clear, worsening contractions that reached five minutes apart, you weren’t even considering it a possibility. It wasn’t feasible to prepare every single time.

You were proven right, at nearly three in the morning, when the contractions once again quieted down. You could tell that Jack was struggling. The pain in his eyes was hard to ignore as he watched you curl in on yourself in agony. Hopeless, was the word, and it wasn’t helped by his being a doctor.

“Seven days,” he whispered into your hair as you drifted in and out of sleep. “Can’t be more than seven days.”

It definitely felt like more. You were becoming nocturnal, kept awake by contractions that never led anywhere, and sleeping it off well into the afternoon. It was like being back on night shift, but instead of patients, you got debilitating cramps and sweating.

It appeared that the membrane sweep really hadn’t helped, at the next appointment only three days later. You were still only one measly centimeter dilated. You cried all the way home out of pure exhaustion.

Jack did everything he could to try and help. He drew warm baths, gave foot rubs, always had the kettle ready for a hot water belt. But even food was becoming uninteresting to you, with nausea and fatigue plaguing you most of your waking hours.

You tried to stay positive when you started losing the mucus plug, even more so when it appeared bloody. You called Jack into the bathroom and shoved your dirty underwear in his face.

“The bloody show?” you said.

“I think so,” he replied.

It was exciting. You tried to let it be exciting. But some part of you must have known deep down that it wasn’t the time quite yet, and the days crept on. Jack finally decided to start his sabbatical when parting in the evening coincided with your cramps. He couldn’t stand to leave you folded over the kitchen table, swaying side to side in a futile attempt to work through the pain.

He had you drinking protein shakes and walking in circles around the apartment, just to get the bare minimum out of the way so you could spend the rest of the time sleeping. You were more like a zombie than a person at that point. You would wake, but you were never alert. You went through the motions, the routines, but without Jack, you wouldn’t have been any more active than a garden snail.

“Jill, you gotta give me something,” you said at your next appointment, just one day before the forty-two week mark.

You looked horrible. Bags under your bloodshot eyes, unwashed hair, barely able to stay upright for exhaustion. Jack wasn’t great either, mostly from pure stress at watching you being put through the wringer. He looked at Jill imploringly. She sighed sympathetically.

“Unfortunately, I believe the only thing I can offer at this point is Pitocin,” she said. “In fact, I think I need to highly recommend it.”

You leaned back against Jack. He swept your hair back and rubbed your shoulders.

“Do you think you’d be open to that now?” he said in a hushed tone.

You huffed weakly.

“I don’t know,” you said. “I — I don’t like it, but I can’t spend another day like this, I really can’t.”

Jack buried his nose in the crown of your head, trying not to lose it.

“How about this,” said Jill delicately. “We make an appointment for tomorrow evening, give you guys the whole day, and if nothing happens, you come in. You’re almost three centimeters, you have made progress this past week, which means the drip probably won’t do anything drastic. We need to speed you along. How does that sound?”

You weren’t ecstatic, but you agreed. You knew it would be dangerous for both you and the baby to stay stagnant for much longer. Still, it wasn’t exactly what you imagined as you ate your last meal in the afternoon the next day. You expected to wake excitedly in the night, and rush to the hospital. That period of “I think this is it” extending into “this is really happening right now.” All elements of surprise were zapped out of your trip to the ward. You weren’t excited, more morose, as you stared gloomily out of the window.

Jack was clearly excited, under the surface. He gripped your leg tightly on the drive, other hand tapping anxiously on the steering wheel. He tried not to show it, though, for you.

“I know this isn’t what you had in mind,” he said as he pulled you out of the car. “But just remember, we’re meeting our baby soon. Right? And then all the pain can be over.”

You took a heavy breath. He loaded up with all the bags. That was at least one good thing about having a planned birth; you could prepare.

“I don’t know,” you said in a glum voice, taking glum steps towards the glum side entrance. “I know he has to come out at some point, but it doesn’t feel real. I think I’ve stopped allowing myself to accept it, after all the false starts.”

You had gone right back to referring to the baby as “he” the past few weeks. Jack didn’t want to talk too much about it, just settled in resolutely to being a boy dad. You had stopped believing in another possibility as well, but it didn’t really bum you out the way it did him.

Jack pressed a kiss to your plump cheek.

“I know,” he said. “But try to believe it, baby. He’ll be in your arms before you know it.”

You grumbled while he let you through the familiar door.

“He better come out fat.”

Jack smiled.

“Yeah? How come?”

“Because he’s gotten so much extra time!” you exclaimed. “He better have been using that to get me some chunky baby rolls.”

Jack just chuckled as the two of you made your slow, painful way through the entrance to the ER. You figured you’d be better to cut through to the staff elevator rather than go in through the civilian entrance up on the OB floor, and you might as well say a quick hello-goodbye to the sorry plebs stuck working.

Indeed, you received quite the strong reaction from the hub as you toddled up.

“Look who it is!” said Dana, immediately encircling you in her arms. “Mom and Dad!”

You snorted as the others gathered round, fussing.

“Look how big you are!

“Can you believe today’s the day?”

“Think pink! Baby Princess is almost here!”

Princess squished your belly carefully, looking intense. After a while, she nodded smugly.

“That’s at least an eight-pounder,” she said happily. “Just like I predicted!”

“Well I should think so,” you said. “Two extra weeks of stealing my nutrients should do that.”

Robby stepped forward, looking exhausted, but he offered you a polite cheek kiss anyways.

“Looking stunning as always, Nurse Abbot,” he said, with a hint of jest in his tone. “The glow is overpowering!”

You fixed him with an unamused stare, and at least a week’s worth of sleep gunk in the corners of your eyes.

“Do you want something from me, Robinavitch?”

“Of course not,” he chided.

“What’s your bet?” you asked suspiciously. “Are you counting on me holding out for another three days or something?”

“Oh, no, no one expected you to go this long,” he said. “However, if the baby comes out with your hair, nine pounds, and a boy, I’ll be very happy.”

You rolled your eyes, and Jack started ushering you away from the mob.

“Goodbye Robby, I hope you lose!” you called behind you.

“Good luck!” said Dana.

“You can do it!” said Mel.

“Bring us a baby girl!” said Princess.

You could only wave halfheartedly as the elevator doors closed.

It was easy to be playfully annoyed at Robby downstairs, or sassy in the car, but the second you stepped into your reserved room, your delivery room, the panic took over. There was a large bed, and a convertible chair for Jack to sleep on, just like you pictured. But they wasted no time in hooking you up to a CEFM, and within the hour, a nurse had shoved a suppository up your vagina. You didn’t feel much like laughing at anything.

“And that’s —”

“Dinoprostone,” the nurse answered your boyfriend, while you tried to adjust. “0.3 milligrams. We’ll start the Pitocin in an hour or two.”

You let out a sigh as she left, pulling at your gown. You weren’t happy. Sitting there, sans underwear, on a Chux pad, waiting with anticipation for what would probably be the most painful, agonizing experience of your life, you felt the walls closing in a bit.

You glanced at the clock above the door. It was almost eight o’clock. Robby and Dana were probably just leaving, and Shen and Samira would be taking over. You soured at the thought that they’d probably be cozy in bed again before you had your baby. Hell, the way things had been going so far, you wouldn’t be surprised if you were barely five centimeters by that point.

“You wanna watch a movie, honey?” Jack asked quietly, watching your sullen face.

You rolled your head to the side so you could see his, though it looked much sweeter. You stroked a hand over his scruff.

“Yeah,” you said forlornly. “Miss Congeniality?”

He nodded diligently and extracted his laptop from one of the bags, setting it up in record time. To both of your surprise, you promptly opened your arms for him to join you on the bed. He did so, moving carefully so as to not upset your gown, or your monitor, or you. You weren’t at the point where you were cursing him or hated the sight of his face. In fact, you quite liked him at that moment. Better to take advantage of it before things progressed and he got the luteal phase side of you. 

“I love you,” you said.

He sounded a little taken aback in his reply.

“I love you too, baby.”

You fiddled with the hem of his t-shirt.

“I just needed to remind us both, before I start hating you,” you explained.

“Of course,” he said.

You sat in the quiet for a while, half watching the movie you knew like the back of your hand. Within a few minutes, Jack’s gentle touch and steady breaths coaxed your eyes closed. On the brink of sleep, only one thing nowadays could really bring you back. 

“Contraction,” you mumbled, as Gracie threw Matthews into a headlock.

“Do you want to move?” he asked.

“No,” you breathed, letting the now familiar discomfort wash over you. “Just stay.”

“Okay,” he said, pecking your forehead. “I’m right here. You know who else is here for you?”

“Who?”

“Benjamin Bratt,” he said. “Benjamin won’t let you down.”

You hummed, a hint of a smile on your lips as you forced your eyes open. Benjamin Bratt was your lifelong celebrity crush, and your friends had wasted no time pointing out some similarities between him and the father of your child when you’d revealed it.

“Of course he won’t,” you said, stroking a finger down his face on the screen.

As the usual contractions passed, you couldn’t help but feel a bit foolishly disappointed. Some small illogical part of you hoped that the prostaglandins would be enough of a push for your body to ramp it up on its own; but the pains were no different than they had been all week.

At a quarter to ten, Jill came in and checked you.

“Just about three centimeters dilated,” she said, to your agitation, “but about ninety percent effaced, so, progress.”

You huffed. Even your TV husband couldn’t distract you from the fact that you weren’t getting anywhere, no matter the positive spin Jill tried to pull. She didn’t seem to want to mention that you were also “just about three centimeters” the last time she saw you, over twenty-four hours previous.

“So now you start the drip?” you asked, and Jack squeezed your hand.

“Yes, now we start,” she said, while a nurse prepared the bag to hang. “Just a low dose, and then if nothing happens, we can gradually increase it. Sound good?”

“Sounds great,” you said, through gritted teeth.

She provided you with a peanut ball to put between your legs and then you were left in wait. Jack rubbed your back and instructed your deep breathing, while you tried to focus on the screen and not the pain.

To your brief respite, the pitocin didn’t intensify the contractions the way you expected them to. After an hour of absolutely zero action, Jill upped the dosage. Still, while they grew closer together, they felt no different. You could breathe through them quite well, and even talk if you felt determined. Maybe you had a high threshold, maybe you were desensitized after all the sleepless nights, maybe it was a bit of both, but what ended up nagging you the most was the hunger.

“Jackie,” you whispered between contractions, around midnight.

“What, baby?” he whispered back, though you were alone in the dark room.

“Can you go get me a soft pretzel?”

He stopped sponging your sweaty forehead, eyes narrowed in amusement.

“A soft pretzel?”

You nodded innocently.

“With plenty yellow mustard, please.”

He rang the washcloth out over the basin, looking half humorous, half distressed.

“Honey, I don’t think —”

“And a hotdog!” you interjected, eyes going wide. “Just get one of every condiment, actually. And I’m picturing a soft serve in a hat. Chocolate vanilla swirl. Okay?”

He wiped his damp hands off on a clean towel and cradled your face.

“Sweetheart, I will get you all of that and more,” he said earnestly, “just as soon as this baby’s outta you.”

“Oh, okay,” you sniffed. “So you don’t love me anymore. I get it.”

It was such a ridiculous notion, he couldn’t help laughing. You tried to smile back, but your face was suddenly crumpled in discomfort as another contraction hit you. Jack checked his watch, then the monitor.

“Five minutes,” he said desperately. “They’re getting closer together, honey. We’re moving.”

“They’re fine,” you hissed. “They’re only, like, double the pain of a bad period. It’s no big deal.”

Jack sent you a look you couldn’t see.

“Your periods get this bad?” he asked in horror. “Even half this bad? How do you get anything done?”

You couldn’t answer, just shook your head, as if to say what are you gonna do?

There wasn’t much, but damn it if Jack wasn’t going to try. 

“You wanna try some massages?” he asked. “Some from lamaze class?”

You shook your head again.

“Okay… how about the birthing comb Perlah gave you?”

You didn’t immediately dismiss it, so he quickly dug into the bag and pulled it out. You opened your hand and he lined the teeth up with the crease of your palm. You squeezed hard. He watched you closely.

“Woah,” you said, eyes blinking open. “That’s — really cool actually.”

“It’s helping?” he asked.

“Yeah, a little,” you said.

You took some deep breaths, massaging the bamboo tines into your tissue. Jack allowed himself some breaths as well, seeing the line between your brows soften a bit. He’d never dare complain after the weeks you’d had, but his brain felt a bit like a wrung out sponge. He could deal with sleep deprivation, he almost thrived on sleep deprivation, but seeing you, in agony, so exhausted you could barely eat a full meal? That was wearing down on him.

“Wait, what time is it?” you said suddenly. “Is it past midnight?”

Jack glanced at his wrist again.

“Closer to one,” he said, “why?”

Your lips turned down a bit.

“Nothing,” you sighed. “It’s just that… Ronan is a Scorpio.”

Jack glanced at his phone with befuddlement.

“Is that bad?” he asked. “Wait, aren’t I a Scorpio?”

“Yes,” you said. “Which is fine, it’s great, but now you’re both Scorpios. Scorpio men.”

He waited for you to explain, but you didn’t, so he just gave you a confused apology kiss.

When the contractions got to be three minutes apart, Jill came in to have a look.

“How are we holding up?” she asked, snapping on gloves, while Jack helped you place your feet in the stirrups. “Contractions manageable?”

“Oh, yeah, they’re great,” you deadpanned. “I’m loving how they’re basically back to back now. Real fun.”

“Well,” she said, looking sorry, “you’re still only almost five centimeters, and we’d like you to be closer to seven.”

You guffawed.

“Of course I am,” you croaked, rubbing your tired eyes. “Not even five, almost five, for fuck’s sake.”

“We are moving, hun, just slowly,” she said, patting your knee. “We’re going to break the waters now, though, and things should pick up after that.”

You nodded flatly, unconvinced, at that point, that anything could possibly speed things up. It was mildly uncomfortable as Jill stuck the amnihook up to your sore cervix, but a second later, you felt a small pop and a sudden gush of fluid. You craned your head up to peer over your bump.

“Is that it?” you asked. “It’s broken?”

“That was it,” said Jill, handing the soiled hook and pads off to a nurse. “Now, you’ll probably continue to leak as the baby moves, so we’ll keep this Chux here under you, and don’t be surprised if things pick up quick. Most times mothers start pushing within hours of the amniotomy.”

“Bet I’m an exception to the rule,” you muttered darkly.

However, despite your pessimistic attitude, things did pick up. Quickly, and painfully. In comparison, the early labor felt like child’s play once you had experienced the stabbing sensation that trapped you now. You watched the sunrise from the window, bent at a ninety degree angle with your arms on the sill. You were no longer cracking jokes; you let out rhythmic moans, while Jack squeezed your hips together.

“Let it out,” he said quietly. “You’re doing so good. So, so good, baby.”

You still clutched the comb in your hands, but any effect it had had earlier was now lost. You were slick with sweat and shaking. As the contraction leveled out, you took great, heaving breaths.

“I think I’m gonna puke,” you breathed, and Jack jumped up.

He guided you back to the bed so your weak knees could collapse, and held a bag up to your mouth. You spit into it, that familiar metallic taste flooding your tongue as you prepared. It was mostly bile that came up as you retched, with no food left in your rumbling stomach. When you were done, you sat back on your bum and braced your arms in front of you.

“I’m never… doing… this again,” you panted. 

“Okay, love,” said Jack, adjusting your hair where he had tied it back the first time you’d vomited. “You never have to.”

Did he want more kids? Yes. But more importantly, he wanted you happy and safe. If you said you were done, you were done. Besides, he’d be lying if he said he would be up to seeing you in this much pain again. He kissed your warm cheek.

“I need the epidural,” you said. “Can we get that?”

Jack had never moved faster in his life. Once Jill was free, and you were back in position, she checked you.

“Seven centimeters,” she said. “Very good.”

“Yes,” you gasped. “Thank you universe.”

Jack all but crushed your hand between his.

“She was wondering about the epidural —”

“Certainly,” said Jill. “We can absolutely get anesthesiology in here, but I should remind you, it could very possibly slow down your progression. Is that a trade you’d be willing to make?”

They both looked at you. You felt about ready to cry. You were finally getting somewhere, would an epidural be setting you up for another twelve hours?

But in the end, you knew, you wouldn’t be able to get through birth without a couple hours of good sleep under your belt. So, you agreed to see the doctor.

It was definitely the right choice, you thought, once the drugs kicked in. Feeling the numbness spread through you was like going to sleep after a double, or sinking into a hot bath in winter time. The relief was palpable.

“Oh my god,” you moaned. “Oh my god, I had forgotten what it was like to not have contractions.”

Jack was relieved too, watching you munch on ice chips, eyes closed.

“You should get some sleep,” he said, stroking your forehead between your eyes. “You need rest.”

“So do you,” you said. “Hey — have you taken your leg off at all since we’ve been here?”

He thought. He had been far too preoccupied with you to notice the dull ache radiating up his right knee. He shrugged, but you were already back to your sass, however sluggishly.

“It’s almost been twenty-four hours, Jack Abbot,” you reprimanded. “Take it off and get in bed.”

“Yes ma’am,” he said lovingly.

He had to admit, it was a relief in its own right, removing the leg and the socks. He hadn’t even realized how much it had been bothering him, but you had always been on top of those things, the things he let fall to the back burner. Just like how he reminded you to eat on stressful days, or prepared hot water bottles when you were on your period. You looked out for each other.

Pulling his other shoe off, he carefully crawled into bed next to you, engulfing you in his arms. You weren’t sure how long you slept. All you knew was that upon waking, Jill was between your legs for a check.

As she covered you back up with the blanket, she could barely contain her smile.

“Ten centimeters. Are you ready to have a baby?”

♡♡♡

You’d thought, somehow, foolishly, that the pushing would be easy compared to the weeks of torture. Especially with the epidural keeping you almost completely numb, how could it be worse?

But now you were approaching your third hour of pushing, and they still couldn’t even see the baby’s head. The pain was barely an afterthought, but every upper muscle in your body was tense and tight from repeated use, and you were running out of energy.

You had Jack holding up one leg, a nurse holding the other, and a third person out of sight was wiping your forehead. You had had to ask, or scream at, someone to remove the ticking clock from above the door. Your eyes kept drifting towards it, and your heart filled with more and more despair as the minutes slid by.

“C’mon, honey, one more push,” Jack was chanting next to you, holding your thigh flush against your chest. “One more, you can do it!”

You fell back against him with a harsh cry as the contraction subsided. Perspiration was dripping down your flushed face, and you were panting like you’d just finished a sprint. 

“I can’t,” you gasped. “I can’t do this any more. It’s not working.”

“The baby is moving,” said Jill from the other side of your bump. “They’re taking their time, but you’re doing really, really well, okay? Keep going, we should be seeing a head soon.”

“Did you hear that?” said Jack soothingly. “It’ll be over soon. You’re so close.”

You felt so close to slipping into sleep, and yet possibly less comfortable than you ever had been before. You felt your eyes beginning to sting. Maybe it was a good sign; throughout everything, you still hadn’t shed a tear. Could the cracks in your exterior mean this was almost at an end? Or were you really ready to give up?

“Here comes the next contraction,” said Jill. “Ready?”

“Big breath,” said Nurse Marta. “Chin to chest — good…”

You bared down with all your might, and the pressure was building.

“Hard, hard hard hard!” said Jill. “Good job, mom! I can just barely glimpse the head.”

Jack pressed a flurry of kisses to your knee, and if your eyes were open you would have seen his already beginning to tear.

“Oh my god,” you muttered as that contraction too passed.

“Can I see?” he asked cautiously. “The head, can I try to see?”

“We lost sight when she relaxed,” said Jill, eyes glued to the monitor. “But on the next contraction, we should begin to crown.”

“Okay,” he said breathlessly. “Okay, one more, and we find out who wins, Robby or Princess, right?”

“Better be Princess,” you grumbled.

You ran a limp hand over Jack’s curls.

“You’ll catch him, right?” you said. “When he comes out?”

“Yeah, baby, of course, I’ll be right there,” he said. “I promise. I mean, I love Jill, but —”

You almost laughed, or got as close to it as you possibly could with how winded you were. Jill spoke up, smirking slightly herself.

“Okay, about twenty seconds to the next contraction,” she said. “And I need you to really push hard, okay? Hard as you can.”

“What do you think I’ve been doing?”

“Alright,” she chuckled, “ready? Go.”

You pushed, and pushed, and pushed. All the blood rushed to your head, and your grip in Jack’s hair only tightened, accidentally bumping his chin against your knee, but he didn’t say anything. It was kind of funny — you were usually in a very different place when you did that.

“You’re so good, you’re so so good, honey,” Jack muttered quickly, unable to keep himself from peering over to watch. “Good, good, you’re so strong, you” — his breath stuttered — “I see the head! Oh, it’s red, the hair — Ronan —”

You let out a strangled sort of sound, half laugh, half cry.

“We’re crowning, I’m gonna need you to stop pushing,” said Jill. “Okay, stop pushing, and breathe, alright? Pant, deep and fast —”

You began to feel a bit lightheaded as you followed her instructions.

“Okay, now push again — good — and relax.”

You groaned, arms shaking and jumping all over the place. Hesitantly, you removed a hand from Jack’s hair.

“Can I feel?”

“Of course,” said Jill. She took your trembling hand and guided it down. “Feel the hair?”

That was it. That was the little push those tears needed to begin leaking from your eyes. It was the most bizarre feeling, not being able to sense touch against your own legs, but knowing that the head you felt was part of you this second. And the next, it would be separate. A whole little human.

“There’s a lot, huh?” said Jack in a wavery voice.

“Jack, if you want to catch, now’s the time,” said Jill, holding out a packet of sterile gloves. “You ready?”

He snapped them on in record time, though was reluctant to leave your immediate side.

“I’m right here,” he said, both for you and for him. “I’m still here next to you.”

“I know,” you said, taking up the hand of the nurse that replaced him.

“Push, mama, push,” Jill chanted from over Jack’s shoulder, watching carefully as he cradled the emerging head.

“You’re doing amazing!” said Jack, fully crying now. “Keep going!”

You did. By the end of the minute, the head was all the way out.

“I see him, I see him!” said Jack frantically. “He’s coming! One more push, just one!”

“Tell me what’s happening, okay?” you asked. “I wanna know.”

“Okay, honey.”

Your nurses pushed you up. It was time for the final contraction. Or, what would hopefully be the final contraction.

“Push!”

You put all your remaining strength behind that last push, tears now joined in the sweat running down your cheeks.

“Here come the shoulders,” said Jack. “Good job! Okay, great job, honey, they’re coming — okay, one, and — c’mon, Ronan, you can do it — c’mon — okay, yes! Yes, yes, yes, so good, okay, and the little arms, and the belly, and —”

There was a sudden release of pressure, and almost immediately, a sharp, strong cry rent the air. You were sobbing in earnest now, but still Jack held onto your baby while they wailed. You couldn’t see them, but you could see his face, transfixed, unmoving. You didn’t like the look. Worry began to creep in.

“What?” you asked wetly. “What’s wrong? Is he okay?”

“It’s” — Jack’s breath caught in his throat — “it’s a girl! It’s a baby girl.” 

Your anxiety cleared, and you sighed in relief, a full body shudder as he gingerly lifted the little baby, your daughter, to your chest. Your eyes were as wide as his were, staring in awe at the little creature on your bosom.

“Hi,” you whispered, while Jill rubbed her vigorously with a cloth. “Hi, baby. You’re here.”

Jack, now gloveless, and hysterical, wrapped his arms around the both of you. Her whole tiny head was covered in sticky but unmistakable dark red hair. And it seemed Santos was right — she did have her dad’s nose. His everything, really.

“Isadora,” Jack said reverently through his tears. “You’re perfect.”

“You got your girl,” you said to Jack, eyes not parting from your Izzy for one second.

“Everyone’s gonna freak,” he said, stroking her head.

It wasn’t until later, with the cord clamped and cut, the placenta delivered, and the postpartum room moved into, you realized.

“Wait,” you said, watching Isadora curl sleepily into her father’s bare chest. “I just remembered something.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said, turning smug. “Princess got everything right. Robby lost.”

Jack began to match your smile.

“Way to go, Izzy,” he said. “First hour on earth, and you’re already beating Uncle Robby’s ass, huh? Atta girl. Just wait til you play him at hockey. He sucks.”

Your eyes, which had never fully dried, were beginning to tear up again. You knew it was to be expected with your hormones out of whack, but he was just holding her, for christ’s sake.

“C’mere,” you said lazily, beckoning him towards your bed. “You wanna call him up? Gloat in his face? I kinda do.”

“Nah,” said Jack calmly, settling in at your side. “I think for now it should just be me and my girls.”

You were sent home the next day, with an appointment for Izzy in the books and relatively minimal soreness, considering. Izzy was quickly proving herself to be a good eater, and a good sleeper.

“There we go, honey,” Jack cooed at her, setting her down in your arms. “All fed, all burped, all changed.”

He perched on the arm of your nursing chair. For once, it was exactly as you pictured. The breeze through the open window making the dragonflies fly, Jack by your side, and a little red haired baby resting in the green and yellow nursery.

---

requests open!

"Hey, you wanna' do me a favour?" Robby asks.

Dennis raises his eyebrows, sitting back. "Yeah?"

"You wanna' house-sit for me while I'm gone?"

Dennis scoffs a little, not sure if he's being serious.

"You'd actually be helping me out, and you could save some money on rent," Robby continues, missing the way Dennis glances down at his left hand.

"Are you being serious?" He questions.

"No smoking, no parties, no pets, no babies," Robby adds. "I was gonna' ask Abbot but he does nude yoga at sunrise, and I don't think some of my elderly neighbours would survive that."

Dennis laughs at that, now fully believing that Robby must be messing with him.

"Yeah, that's gonna' be a bit of a problem," He says. "I don't think my wife would be very happy if I was gone for three months, especially if I couldn't bring our daughter with me."

Robby freezes, blinks a few times, then leans closer to him across the table. Dennis watches him process that information, wondering if he should be offended that his boss never noticed his wedding ring.

"You're married?" He finally asks. "With a baby?"

"Uh, yeah," Dennis says, raising his hand up, showing the gold band. "Two kids, actually."

"Since when?"

He shrugs. "Since forever, really. Grew up together in a small farm town, you know, got married when we were eighteen."

"How old are you now?"

"...twenty-eight."

"You've been married for a decade," Robby repeats. "And you have two kids?"

"Yep," Dennis says.

"How old?"

"Our first just turned nine, the youngest is eight months," He answers, already reaching for his phone. "You wanna' see a picture?"

Robby nods, and Dennis flips the screen around, showing him his lock screen. It's you holding your younger daughter, while the older one beams at the two of you. Dennis says your names as he points to each of you, unable to stop himself from grinning as he does.

"Wow, beautiful family," Robby says. "You never told me you were married."

"Yeah, uh, figured the ring was self explanatory."

tags:

“Whatcha doing over there mama,” he asks, looking you up and down in your pastel yellow sundress, unashamed as he checks out his wife.

You walk closer, a wicker basket full of ripe apples in hand, wiping a stray tear away with the back of your hand before Megumi could catch a glimpse of it. His hand slides past your waist, resting at the dip in your lower back, holding you close to the two of them.

“I picked this apple just for you mommy,” Megumi says, presenting the apple he chose.

“Why don’t we find out how good it really is, huh Gumi,” you say, taking the apple from him and bringing it up to your mouth.

You take a big bite, mouth flooding with the sweet taste of juice, savoring the freshness of the simple fruit. Before you can finish your bite, Toji places a soft kiss to your lips, licking away the mess, humming in satisfaction.

“Mmm, very sweet. Good job,” he agrees, bouncing Megumi up and down on his arm.

“Daddy, you have to actually taste it to know,” he says, rolling his eyes and huffing ever so slightly.

“Ugh, fine,” Toji replies, returning the attitude but when he turns to you, he’s smirking with content.

Toji takes a big bite, nodding his head, and restating the approval for Megumi’s choice in apples. Megumi watches the two of you, the brightest smiling pulling on his lips, one hand gripping his daddy’s shirt, the other planted firmly against your arm.

“You want a bite too, Gumi,” you ask, extending the apple towards him.

Placing your hand on his back, he takes the apple from your grasp and tries his hardest to take a big bite. You giggle softly, watching him enjoy his pick, memorizing this moment as the low summer sun casts his face in warm shadows while he’s wedged between the two of you.

“Mmm,” he hums, “so good mommy. Can I actually have this one instead?”

Toji bursts out in laughter, his fingers curling at your back to pull you closer towards him, and you can’t help but laugh harder too.

“Of course you can Gumi,” you say, placing a soft kiss on his chubby cheek, rubbing your hand up and down on his back.

Resting your head on Toji’s shoulder, you breathe in and out slowly, letting yourself enjoy the simplicity of your small family. He places a kiss on your hair, smelling all the familiar scents of you, before pulling away and plucking a baby pink flower from a tree.

He pushes your hair behind your ear, placing the flower there, and gives you a satisfied look.

“Don’t you think mama looks so pretty, huh Meg.”

Megumi’s eyes fall on you, the cutest smile spreading from cheek to cheek, his face bunching up in apple juice and baby fat.

“The prettiest mommy there is.”

This time, you can’t even care to stop your tears from falling.

│Masterlist│

Two years after the battle at the cove of the ancestors, the world finally felt quiet again.

The waves no longer carried the scent of smoke. The sky was no longer torn apart by metal ships and vile ash raiders. For the first time in a long time, you could breathe. 

You had been the last since before that battle—the last daughter of the snow, the last voice of the Kray’na People. 

Your people once lived where the mountains cut into the sky, where frost clung to braids and breath turned silver in the air. They were whispered about more than they were known. The hidden ones—a myth to most. 

And then the sky people came, fire against ice. Metal against bone. By the time the war reached the forest once more, you were already alone. 

Neteyam never treated you like something fragile because of it, that’s why you chose him in the first place. By the will of Eywa, he found you along with his friends and siblings, alone—somehow thriving in a cave. 

So, when your belly began to swell with life, with twins, something inside you both shifted. You would not let your children’s lives begin as ghosts. You chose the forest for their birth—the place Neteyam had once called home. His grandmother delivered them beneath the woven canopies of the People, while Neytiri stood at your side with proud, shining eyes. Jake, for once, was calm, grounded. 

Your babies were communed with Eywa before the tree of souls—lifted and welcomed. Their adorable, tiny hands brushed sacred tendrils as they were introduced to the Great Mother. Their first breath carried into something eternal, ancient. 

Your children would spend the first weeks of their lives in the same place that Neteyam did. It meant more than he could ever fully say, that you chose the forest, that you embraced his people, that you wanted your children to begin where he had begun. And for him to see Neytiri, who came along, overwhelmed with happiness, and Jake—disarmed, calm, and smiling. 

When you returned to the reef, the celebration lasted for days, Lo’ak boasted like a proud uncle, Kiri held your babies as if they were spun from glass, Tuk refused to leave your side, even Tsireya travelled with you to witness the ceremony, wide eyed and reverent beneath the forest canopy. Your children's lives were honored twice, once by the roots of ancient trees, and once by the endless sea. 

The years passed gently after that, eight of them to be exact.  

The reef became your children’s world, they grew strong in saltwater currents and sunlit shallows. They learned to dive before they could properly argue. They swam before they could run. 

And Neteyam, he grew into something formidable—stronger than the boy you fell in love with. Broader, sharper, quieter. 

There were more attacks after the mangkwan, more avatars, more raids on Bridgehead. The war never truly ended, it only changed shape. Neteyam was never still. He trained, he fought alongside the people, he’d return home smelling of salt and forest leaves, shoulders heavy with responsibility—but soft whenever they found you.

In the family Marui, photos and woven keepsakes lined the wall, memories of you, Neteyam, and of your children. Blurry, captured smiles of you and Neteyam when you were younger, memories of forest births and reef festivals too.

You sit cross legged on the mat, a shallow bowl of natural oils beside you. Your son sits between your legs, squirming as your fingers work carefully through his thick curls. 

“Mama! Are you almost finished? I want to go play.” He whines, squirming under your skilled hands.

“Moi’at,” you mutter, “let mommy focus, it is not my fault you decided to mess these up.” You tried not to smile. 

“Okay…” He obeyed, sitting still—aware that perhaps that will make this go faster.

The textural sound of the delicate, woven doorway catches you and your son’s attention. It’s Neteyam, returning from a hunt, his head ducked down ever so slightly as he entered. His expressive hair swinging over his face before he moved it away, he stood up straight, his broad shoulders looming a shadow over you and your eight year old boy.

“Little warrior,” He smiled, leaning down and placing a kiss on Moi’at’s forehead. “What’s mommy doing with your hair?”

“Re-twisting it, I ruined them while playing with Ro’uk.” 

“Ohh, Ro’uk…is he still coming tonight for your sleepover? He and Li’anu?” 

“You did not tell me this,” You cut in, hands pausing their movements.

Neteyam stepped closer, moving behind you and leaning down. His large hands moved to your swollen belly. “It was sudden. I’m sorry. You won’t need to do anything. I’ll handle them. Lo’ak has a date — I made a deal with him.”

you exhale slowly, head dipping back onto his shoulder. “I am with child, they will need to be quiet.” 

He nods immediately, rubbing gently against your growing tummy. “How do you feel?” 

“Tired.” you admit, though your hands move over his.

“Momma!” Moi’at protests. “You stopped again!” 

Neteyam laughs softly. “Okay, okay. Move.” helps you stand, guiding you carefully before taking your place behind your son. “Go rest.” 

You watched for a moment—the way his large hands attempt delicate twists, the way his tongue presses slightly against his cheek in concentration. 

Your chest tightens, then you move to the hammock woven specifically for the two of you. You don’t even remember closing your eyes.

As you drift off, Neteyam remains seated behind your son, twisting his hair as gently as possible. “Where is your twin sister, hm?” 

“In the water.” Moi’at spoke wistfully, his arms crossed around his chest and his eyebrows pinching together.

“Almost done. Just a few more twists.” He finished with surprising patience. “You look like a warrior.” He chuckles, holding Moi’ats shoulders.

“Thank you papa. I’m going to the water now.” 

Neteyam smiles, “Don’t get lost, stay close to your sister.”

His eyes immediately go to you when Moi’at leaves. He makes his way towards the hammock where you rest, brushing hair from your face, then lowering his hands to your belly. He leans down slightly, placing a soft kiss there.

Looking back, he cleans up the contents of hair products and stores them away for later use. He leaves the pod and heads to Lo’aks. “Pass me one of those.” He says, gesturing towards the crafted vessels filled with kava.

“How was the hunt? Y/n feeling good?” Lo’ak teases, handing him the cask. 

“The hunt was long, tiring. She’s fine, she’s just stressed lately.” He says, quickly shaking his head and correcting himself, “but I have no right to think like that when she’s the one carrying the baby.” Neteyam crouches, a long sigh escaping his lips.

“You’re whipped.” 

“Yeah. I've always been.” 

“I remember when we found her in the cave, and when we took her back. You carried her here on the Ilu, you were the first one to reveal yourself to her.” Lo’ak satirized. 

The children, Ni’alu, Moi’at, Li’anu, and Ro’uk listened  secretly from outside, their curiosity getting the best of them. “What cave daddy?! Are you talking about mommy?!” Your daughter is the first to leap inside, a tiny hand grasping at her tail—trying to hold her back.

“Alright, all of you come out.” Neteyam rolls his eyes, picking your daughter up and holding her against his chest. “Haven’t I told you to stop eavesdropping my conversations with your aunties and uncles?” 

“Yes…” She looks down.

“Look at me, it’s okay.” He smiles. “Daddy’s not angry at you babygirl.” He kisses her cheek softly.

“Then why won’t you tell me who you were talking about! What cave?” 

“Maybe later, okay?” 

“Okay…”

Neteyam puts her down, turning to face Lo’ak again, “Alright bro, I gotta get them ready for sleep.” He turns to face the children. “Come on kids, let’s go.”

Lo’ak and Tsireya’s children move to follow their uncle and cousins, skipping with excitement. 

Neteyam watches as Ro’uk and Li’anu say goodbye to their parents—he carefully guides the children into your family marui, eclipse approaches and they relax, playing with their wooden toys made from your careful hands alongside Neteyam’s.

He makes sure that the children are properly settled and comfortable before going to check on you. “Baby?” 

You sit awake, honing an arrowhead using a dense river stone. “Yes?” You respond without looking up, tongue poking out, focused. 

“Come, I prepared some food for you.”

“What is it?” 

“Roasted meer deer, coated in Pa’liwll. Your favorite.” 

Your lips part slightly and you practically launch up. “It has been so long! I have craved this! Even before pregnancy.” 

He giggles softly, reaching out for you. “I know, I know. Come.”

“Auntie Y/n!!” Ro’uk flings himself at you, his arms wrapping around your strong legs.

You laugh out loud, picking him up and carrying him on one hip. Neteyam brings the Pa’liwll smoked meer deer to the mat, setting it down and unfolding it. “Here baby.” 

Your mate helps you sit down, adjusting Ro’uk on your lap gently. “Thank you.” 

“Daddy! Can we hear a bedtime story?” Ni’alu stands, moving to where you are seated “I missed you today mommy. You slept all day.” 

“Oh, Ni’alu” you whisper, kissing her soft white hair. 

“Lay with us!” She drags you as soon as you’re finished eating. “Come on mama!”

“Mommy needs to clean up.” Neteyam says, standing before you and whispering quietly. “I left a couple bowls of river water there for you,” He points to the woven water carriers in the corner of the Marui. “Do you need my help?”

“I think I can manage,” you tease, arms crossing. “I love you.” 

“I love you.” He smiles, big, soft.

You set Ro’uk down and walk away, moving behind the second set of curtains and taking care of yourself.

The children drift off, all except for Ni’alu. “Dad, I still haven’t forgotten about the cave. I want to know the story…” 

Neteyam sighs, “Babygirl, I don’t know what to tell you, your uncle was just making stuff up.” 

“No he wasn’t. You agreed.” 

“Fine.” He lays in between the children, looking back to make sure that you were still bathing. “It was said to have all been a myth, the Kray’na, the snow people… they had never existed, they lived together in harmony; only away from everyone else, and so when the sky people came and they…”

“What did they look like daddy?!” Ni’alu inquires loudly, interrupting him and scooting closer into his embrace.

He looks at the doorway where you’re just inside. His Kray’na mate. Whom he made a promise to; to never tell the children, or anyone who does not already know of your true ancestry. “Nobody knows,” He faces his and Lo’ak’s children again, all of them awake and glaring up at him in wonder. “It is just a story anyway.” He tucks the children in. 

The children are asleep. Moonlight slips across the marui, silvering the marui and catching in your daughter's pale hair—it glows. Neteyam stares at it again, he always does. You walk in silently, undoing your braids. You feel the weight of his gaze before he even speaks.

“She asked,” he says quietly. 

You keep untying the beads from your braid. “About what?”  

“About the cave—why Lo’ak said I carried you here from it.” 

“That was many years ago.” You only hope that the conversation will end there, but it doesn’t. 

“It was not nothing.” 

You exhale slowly. “Then tell her it was a story.” 

He turns fully to face you. “It is not just a story.” 

You meet his eyes now. “It is enough.” 

“For you,” he says. 

The air shifts, you straighten up. “What is that supposed to mean?” 

“It means,” he says carefully, “that it may be enough for you to bury it. It is not enough for them.”

Your jaw tightens. “They are children, Neteyam.” 

“They are our children.” 

“And that is exactly why they do not need to know.” 

His brows pull together. “Do not speak as if this only belongs to you.”

“It is my clan,” you snap. “My people. My loss.”

“And they are my children,” he replies, voice firm. “You do not get to decide what parts of them exist.” 

You step towards him. “Exist? You think I am erasing something?” 

“I think you are pretending it never existed.” 

Your breath catches subtly, “that is not fair.” 

“What is not fair,” he counters, voice rising slightly, “is watching our daughter stare at her own reflection and not understanding why she looks different.”

“She is not different.” 

“She is Kray’na.” 

The word lands like a blade, like the gunfire and destruction you watched destroy your people. “You do not get to claim that so easily,” you whisper. 

“I am not claiming it for me. I am claiming it for her.” 

You shake your head. “And…what—you think speaking it makes it safe?” 

“No,” he says sharply. “But silence does not.” 

You fold your arms tightly over your chest. “You did not watch them die.” Your voice does not break, it just sharpens. . “You did not hear the ice crack beneath fire. You did not see what was left when the smoke cleared.”

His expression falters, but he doesn’t retreat. “I know I did not.”

“You think I am hiding out of shame?” Your voice trembles now. “I am hiding because I survived by being forgotten.”

“And you think that will protect them?” His voice rises despite himself. “By teaching them that parts of themselves are too dangerous to speak?”

“They are dangerous!”

Neteyam’s voice breaks free for the first time. “No!”

The word echoes louder than anything he has ever directed at you. You both freeze, but the dam has already cracked.

“They are not dangerous,” he continued, voice raised, emotion bleeding through. “The sky people are dangerous. War is dangerous. Ignorance is dangerous. But who you are? That is not something to bury.”

Your eyes burn with unshed tears, drifting to your daughter, then to your mate. “You think I do not know that?” You fire back despite the emotions. “You think I do not feel it every time someone looks at her hair too long?” 

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing once before facing you again. “I am tired,” he says, voice still tight, “of watching you carry extinction like it is something shameful.”

“It is not shame,” you snap. 

“Then why do you refuse to speak it?”

“Because it puts a target on them!”

“They already have one!” he shouts. The children stir faintly. Both of you glance over instinctively, chests heaving in tight rage. “You think I cannot protect them?” 

“That is not what this is about neteyam.” 

“It sounds like it.” 

“It is about preventing the need for protection in the first place!” You frown, hand flying to your sweaty forehead.

“You cannot control the world!” he snaps. “You cannot out hide it!”

The force of his voice makes you physically step back. He sees it, he sees everything—but he saw the flinch. Something in him cracks. Silence crashes down over the both of you, his breathing slows down first.

“I am trying to keep them safe,” you whisper.

“I know.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “You know in theory. You do not know what it feels like to be the last.”

His anger disappears completely at that. He closes the distance slowly this time. Carefully. Like approaching something wounded.“You are not the last,” he says quietly.

“I am.”

“You are not,” he repeats, voice breaking softer now. His hand lifts but hesitates before touching you. “You are standing right here. And they are sleeping right there.” His hand settled at your waist. “You’re not alone anymore… I raised my voice,” he says quietly into your hair. “I should not have.”

“You were not wrong.” 

“Neither were you.” He kisses your head gently, holding you tightly, as if you might disappear. Your hands finally lift, gripping his chest.

Your soft cries are muffled against him, he strokes your hair, whispering sweetly. “I’m sorry baby. I’m so sorry.”

He carries you to bed, laying over you—one hand draped lazily over your belly, the other wrapped around your shoulders. 

Pregnancy had reshaped you in forms that Neteyam loved, your hips swelled, breasts grew for the purpose of feeding. He smiled softly, laying his head down against them. 

Dawn filters gently through the woven seams of the marui, soft gold sliding across your skin. Neteyam is awake before you, his arm is still heavy over your belly, his body curved against yours protectively. For a moment, he just watches the slow rise and fall of your breathing. His hand brushes your cheek. “Yawne,” he murmurs instead, voice low and warm. “Wake up.” 

You stir beneath him, before he can say anything else—the sound reaches him, faint splashing, distant laughter, entirely unsupervised.

He lifts his head slightly. The children are gone from the hammock, all of them. He exhales through his nose, a crackle hums through his comms. 

Lo’ak’s voice cuts through, “big bro, before you get mad…” 

Neteyam exhales through his nose. “You are not even here and I am already irritated.” 

Tsireya’s soft laughter carries faintly in the background, along with distant surf that only means they’ve gone far. “We’re heading further out,” Loak continues, “just for today, maybe tonight. I wanted to ask if the kids could stay with you one more day.” 

Neteyam glances toward the open weave of the doorway. Faint shrieks of laughter drift in from the shallows. Ni’alu’s sharp voice correcting someone, Moi’at arguing, Ro'uk's dramatic splashing, Li’anu trying to restore order. He rubs his jaw. “You owe us.” 

“I know. Reef fruit. Smoked shellfish. And that sweet kelp wrap that Y/n likes.” 

Neteyam glances down at the mention of you, you’re awake now, watching him through sleepy eyes.

“Is that Lo’ak?” You murmur. 

He nods slightly, and Lo’ak’s voice lowers. “She okay?”

Neteyam looks at you properly now — the calm in your face, the softness that settled after last night’s hard truths. “She’s resting,” he says. “She’s good.” 

“Tell her thank you, really.” The line clicks off at that.

Neteyam removes the comm slowly.

“Well?” you ask.

“They want another day.”

You close your eyes briefly—not in frustration, just calculating your energy. Outside, a splash sounds far too large for comfort.

“Are they close?” you ask immediately.

“Yes.”

You sit up carefully. Neteyam is already shifting to help you, one hand steady at your waist. “Then they can stay,” you say after a moment. “But you are managing them.”

“Yes Ma’am.” 

The children stay with your family for one more day, their excitement is palpable once their parents return. Everyone goes back to their marui, your family remains—happy, growing.

Ni’alu is curious, protective, and proud. Qualities which came straight from you. She has felt that there is something being kept from her—something about mountains, about caves, about snow. Children build whole worlds out of fragments.

Two days later, Lo’ak, Tsireya, You, and Neteyam are on the sand, watching your children play and laugh. You sit close by your mate, beneath the curved stretch of woven shade, Tsireya and Lo’ak are nearby, their shoulders brushing.

Ni’alu is racing her brother along the reef edge, Ro’uk and Li’anu trailing behind, arguing about who started last. They are loud, alive, happy. 

A group of older reef boys and girls wander down the shoreline, fresh from spear practice, taller, on the edge of adolescence. Old enough to notice differences. Young enough to comment on them without thought. 

One of them slows when Nialu pushes her hair back from her face. Her pale braids catch the sun, almost silver. He nudges the girl beside him. “Whys her hair so light?” 

Your daughter hears loud and clear, but pretends she doesn’t. 

A girl shrugs, “looks like sea foam.” 

A girl bumps into Moi’at, purposely, not subtly. He hisses instinctively, fangs bared, tail bristling. Your son has always looked more like Neteyam, his hair, and skin darker. Only when he is angry—then he mirrors you.

The group of teenagers freeze for a second, then laugh aloud. “Whoa! Look at those teeth! What are you? a predator?”

Another girl giggles, covering her mouth. “They’re huge! You could eat a fish whole!” Ni’alu glances at him, then takes a deep breath, trying to calm herself.

You rise from Neteyam’s arms, standing with measured grace. Your skirts brush the sand, but your voice is steady, warm, and carries across the shallow. “Enough.”

The group turns, startled by the calm authority in your tone. You kneel beside Ni’alu, brushing damp strands of hair from her face. “Your hair is beautiful,” you murmur. “It is yours.” 

Then you glance at Moi’at, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder. “And your teeth, they are strong. They are you.” 

“From where?” 

Your hand stills for a second, Neteyam is behind you now. Hands firm on your shoulders, stomach pressed against your head. “From family.” You hesitate. 

Your children only nod slowly, but you can feel it—the question did not disappear. It just went quiet, but quiet questions are the ones that grow roots. 

Tsireya comes quietly, facing the group. “If you are done with spear training, perhaps you should help your parents mend nets before eclipse.” 

She dismisses the group, polite, and final. They disperse, chastened, not ashamed—muttering under their breath. 

And that is why, weeks later, the reef was quiet before dawn, the soft gold of early light not yet brushing the waves. You shifted slightly on the hammock, feeling the weight of your third child in your belly, you listened to the gentle rhythm of the water—drifting into deep sleep as Neteyam was already asleep beside you.

But the children were already awake. Ni’alu had slipped out first, a whisper of movement across the marui floor. Moi’at followed, tail flicking nervously as he trailed behind his sister. Li’anu and Ro’uk, eager to be part of the adventure, joined from their home without hesitation. The four of them moved like shadows over the sand, careful to avoid making a sound.

Ni’alu whispered instructions under her breath. “Keep low… stay close… don’t wake anyone.”

Moi’at hissed softly when Ro’uk stumbled on a rock, but they pressed on. Their goal was clear; the mountains. Ni’alu wanted to see the peaks, the icy cliffs, and the snow she had only heard about in fragments from Neteyam’s quiet stories which he refused to tell fully. 

Ni’alu has always been observant. Too observant. She notices the way your voice shifts when snow is mentioned. The way Neteyam stares north when the wind turns sharp. The way the elders glance at her hair and then look away quickly.

She remembers the argument you and Neteyam had, she was not fully asleep—curiosity grows teeth. “We are going to see it,” she whispers.

“The snow?” Moi’at asks, eyes wide.

“Yes.”

“That is far,” Li’anu says nervously.

Ni’alu lifts her chin. “So was the forest.” They take supplies quietly. Food wrapped in woven leaves, small blades from Neteyam’s box of weapons. and water pods.

Ni’alu knows the old flight paths. She has listened when Neteyam thought she wasn’t. The children go on the ilu. 

By the time the sun began to climb above the horizon, finally casting long, golden streaks over the reef, the children were already halfway along the path toward the mountains. You stirred, stretching, and glanced around, but the hammock beside you was empty of the little ones—Neteyam still asleep, your senses lulled by the pre dawn calm.

Hours passed. You went about your morning slowly, checking on the reef, preparing a few things for later, but a faint unease began to grow in your chest.

When Neteyam noticed the children were gone, his eyes narrowed instantly, voice low but urgent as he roused you. “They’re not here. Where did they go?”

He left the pod then, searching—long minutes of searching. You prayed silently in your home, clutching your belly protectively, eyes closed, begging for any sign of the twins. 

He returned with nothing, no children, nothing. Neteyam already had his comms ready. “Lo’ak,” he barked, “any sign of them?”

Lo’ak’s voice came through shortly after, calm but sharp. “Not yet. I’ll check along the usual paths. Stay put.”

Your mate kneeled beside you, held you against his chest. “Shh, it’s okay. We will find them.” 

The sun rose higher, the reef glowing in warm light, but there was no sign of Ni’alu, Moi’at, Li’anu, or Ro’uk. Neteyam, Lo’ak, Aonung, Tonowari, Rotxo, and Jake scoured the edges of the reef, searching the shallow coves and tidal pools, calling out for the children.

Every footstep and every shout brought worry closer to panic. Then they left, all six of them on the ikran—soaring through the sky. 

The children do not stop, the journey longer than they expected, by the time the whites begin to gather at the edges of stone, their voices are gone, laughter faded into quiet awe. 

Ni’alu steps onto it first, it crunches under her feet—the others hesitate but she does not, walking slowly, kneeling to press her hands onto it. “This is ours, I think…” She whispers to her brother. 

They go farther than they should have, noticing the blackened rock where fire once touched ice, half collapsed structures frozen into landscape. It is beautiful and wounded.

The children begin to shiver, “Look over there,” Ni’alu whispers, pointing toward a hollowed tree marked with strange carvings. Moi’at steps closer, fascinated, not noticing how close he is to the edge.

Ro’uk follows, holding a stick like a staff, scanning the ridge. Li’anu clutches her curls, uneasy, but stays behind everyone. Ni’alu leans toward the carvings, but a loose patch of snow shifts under her foot. “Careful!” she cries.

But it’s too late. Moi’at slips. His foot slides on the ice covered rock, and for a heart stopping second, he teeters over the edge of a shallow drop.

“Moi’at!” Ni’alu screams, lunging toward him, arms outstretched.

He grabs onto a tree branch at the last flailing moment. Snow spraying everywhere. He cries, the tree bark slitting his tiny hand open. He dangles, frozen in terror. 

Ni’alu’s hands grip his arm, trying to pull him up, but she’s small. Her own balance is precarious. Ro’uk drops to his knees, gripping a nearby root, trying to help. Li’anu screams, voice breaking, backing away in panic.

The moment stretches, every second feeling like an eternity. The cold bites, the wind whistles, the shadows of the mountains loom. Moi’at finally steadies himself, hands trembling as he pulls himself onto solid ground. “I…I want to go home!” He shouts.

Neteyam soared high on his ikran, Aonung behind him. Lo’ak and Rotxo followed closely. From above, they spotted them—Ni’alu, Ro’uk, Li’anu, and Moi’at, huddled near the snow-dusted rocks.

Neteyam’s heart leapt. “There!” he shouted, pointing—redirecting the ikran towards the kids. The moment their ikran touched down, Neteyam leapt from the saddle, rushing to the children. Moi’at’s small hand was smeared with blood from where he had grabbed bark and ice, trembling as he tried to staunch it with his other hand.

“Moi’at!” Neteyam cried, crouching beside him. “Show me.”

Ni'alu knelt next to her brother, panic flashing in her silver eyes. “I tried to help! Daddy I’m sorry!” she stammered.

“Shh, it’s okay.” He whispers, kissing their heads. 

Lo’ak landed beside Ro’uk and Li’anu, steadying them. Rotxo helped gather their scattered supplies. “Careful, please” Lo’ak said, voice firm but relieved. “You’ve given us all a heart attack.” He pulls his children close.

Ni’alu’s gaze flicked toward the edge again, whispering, “I just wanted to see the snow…”

Neteyam looked at her, voice low but firm. “And you did. But not like this. Not risking your life, not alone.” He lifted her into his arms.

With everyone accounted for, Jake and Tonowari arrived overhead, circling as Neteyam gave them a nod. The group began the careful trek back down, each step deliberate, Neteyam supporting Ni’alu while Aonung kept an eye on the others.

Neteyam returned with your children past eclipse, you paced heavily in your marui. The snow has melted from Ni’alus braids, but it lingers in her clothes. She trudges into the marui, eyes wide. Moi’at follows behind her. 

“Where were you?” your voice is low, carrying an edge of ice. The sight of snow on her clothes snapped something inside of you. 

“The mountains…” She whispers.

“The mountains?” You gasp, louder, hands clenching. Neteyam stands aside, organizing the marui and pretending not to listen. “You deliberately disobeyed us!  You went alone! Put your cousins in danger!”

“I just wanted to see…” her voice cracks. 

“You just wanted to see?” The words are sharp, slicing. “Do you even understand what you were doing? Do you have any idea what could have happened?”

Moi’at shrinks back, trying his best to hide his injury. 

“You could have died!” you shout, pacing toward her. “You could have fallen into the ice, lost yourself in the wind! There are things there you cannot fight, things you cannot even imagine!”

“How would you know?! You’ve never even been there!” 

You hesitate for a beat, her words cut deeper than she’d intended. Your chest tightened, the past surged forward—the jagged cliffs, the frozen hollows, the blackened ruins where fire had melted ice. The snow was home once, long before the world you now knew. Long before your people were gone. 

Ni’alu’s eyes searched yours, silver and questioning, unaware of the storm behind them. "You have been there?” she whispered.

Your lips parted, then closed again. You hesitated, unable to speak—not out of fear of Ni’alu, but because the memory was too close, too raw. The ache of loss pressed into your ribs, mocking, heavy and relentless.

Ni’alus voice edged with frustration, “say something!” 

You flinched, and almost without thinking, your voice came sharp and trembling. “Yes! I have been there, Ni’alu. And it is not a place for children to wander alone!”

Ni’alu recoiled, confused and hurt. “But it’s just mountains, just snow—”

“Just snow?” you snapped, finally letting the fear and fury spill over. “Do you think it’s just snow when it can cut you, when ice can make you fall, when fire can leave ruins frozen forever? Do you have any idea what it means to lose everything like that?!”

“I didn’t mean—” she stepped forward, reaching for you, but you only moved back. 

“No! You need to understand! You can’t just go wandering into a place like that thinking it’s a game! That is not how you survive!”

Neteyam placed a light hand on your shoulder. “Y/n…Stop.” 

You jerked away instinctively, spinning to face Ni’alu again, you went too far. Your anger, fear, and grief collided, spilling over the child before you.

She swallows hard. “I was careful—”

“Careful?” Your voice crescendos, trembling with fear.. “Careful does not save you from history! Careful does not bring back the lost! Do you think these mountains are safe?”

“I… I just wanted to know where I come from!” Ni’alu shouts. Her voice cracks, the fear finally spilling over.

“You come from here!” you scream. “From this reef, from this blood, from your family! And yet you chase after shadows!”

She stumbles back, tears streaking her face. “You never tell us anything! You act like it doesn’t matter!”

“It doesn’t matter?!” The words escape before you can stop them. “There is nothing left! Nothing of the people! Everything is burned and broken, and you think you can waltz in and claim it?!” Her small shoulders shake with sobs. 

Neteyam’s jaw tightened. His eyes darkened, and he stepped forward, tone clipped with barely controlled anger. “Y/n. Enough.”

You spin toward him. “No! You don’t get it! She could have—”

“She went because you hid it!” he interrupts, voice rising for the first time since your last argument.  “This is on you! You think keeping it secret protects her? You think pretending there’s nothing left keeps her safe? Do you hear yourself?”

“I—” You stumble, words caught in your throat. “I was trying to keep her alive!”

“And instead you taught her to hide, to go alone, to take risks she shouldn’t take! You pushed her to do this yourself!” His voice is harsh, crackling with anger. “Do you understand that? You pushed her!”

The marui feels smaller, the walls pressing in. Ni’alu cries openly now, curling in on herself, shaking. Moi’at shrinks.

“She’s a child!” Neteyam continues, stepping close enough to tower over you. “And you are treating her like she was nothing, like curiosity is a crime!”

You feel your chest tighten, tears stinging, but your anger hasn’t cooled. “She was—she could have been killed!”

“And she was almost killed because she needed to know what you refused to teach her, baby!” His voice breaks. “You let secrecy and fear dictate everything, and now look at the mess it caused!”

Ni’alu sobs, rocking slightly. You realize she isn’t just afraid of the mountains.  she’s afraid of you now.

Neteyam softens slightly toward the children but not toward you. “Go sit with your brother, my love,” he instructs Ni’alu firmly. She obeys, trembling. “You will not speak of this again tonight.”

Then he turns fully to you. “You think scaring her with your fear keeps her safe?” he asks, voice lower now, seething. “No. It almost destroyed her. Do you understand? This is on you!”

Ni’alu shrank back, blinking between the two of you, her eyes wide and uncertain. The tension in the marui was suffocating, the echo of what could have been a tragedy still hanging in the air.

You close your eyes, chest heaving. “I… I was trying to..”

“To protect her?!” He interrupts again, louder. “Yes. But you did it wrong. You let your fear become cruelty!”

The room goes silent, the children still watching, trembling.

“I did not mean it, stop raising your voice at me.” you whisper, voice small now, glancing at your feet. 

“Intent does not erase damage,” he says. His hands drop to your shoulders. “You need to understand this. You cannot protect by hiding. Not from them. Not from themselves.”

You swallow hard. “I just want to keep them safe.”

“I know,” he says, finally softening. “But they are alive because they are brave. Not because you scared them into obedience.”

You nod, tears slipping down, realizing the truth in his words.

Neteyam’s gaze softened slightly as he looked at you, but his words were still firm. “Y/n, I know. You’re scared, you’ve been through more than anyone could imagine. But that does not give you the right to terrify her. Calm down. Breathe. We fix this together. without shouting, without fear taking control.”

You nod, leaning against him. His hands wrap around your belly, placing soft kisses on your cheeks and down your neck. “I’m sorry.” He breathed, one hand reaching up and cupping your jaw. “Okay? I’m sorry..”

You glanced at your daughter—guilty, regretting. You nod again. Neteyam’s anger has not gone entirely—it lingers like heat in the air—but his hands on you are steady, grounding.

He stays up that night, he tries not to be so much like his father—he sometimes fails, letting anger flair too quickly. You can feel his stress, even in the quiet space between you both. “Y/n,” he whispers.

You stir, eyes half open, and meet his gaze. “Hmm?”

“I want to see you baby,” he says, quietly. “Come on.” 

You hesitate, chest tightening, unsure if you can face the vulnerability yet. His hand brushes your arm, gentle, patient, an invitation rather than a demand. The warmth of him seeps through the space between you.

“Where…?” you murmur.

“Somewhere private,” he replies, voice softening, “just us. No distractions, no walls, just you and me.”

The tension on your shoulder unknots, slowly, you nod. He helps you out of the hammock, the night air cool against your skin. 

He takes you out to the cove, kneeling before you on a rock, bringing you down with him. 

You meet him halfway, your kuru lifted in your hands, letting tsaheylu form. It hums through you and you gasp—the connection is grounding, carrying with it a sense of understanding that words could never reach. For a long moment, you simply exist in the bond.

He leans his forehead against yours, laying you down gently, balancing your head and your stomach. The argument, the anger, the fear—they all still exist, but in this moment, they are shared, softened by understanding.

You tilt your head slightly, brushing against him in the gentlest way, and he mirrors you, careful not to overwhelm or hurt you. “Breathe,” he whispers. “Just breathe with me.” 

His lips press against yours, fingers working on your clothes, and his. Time stretches, slow and deliberate. The only sound being your soft mewls and the velvety noise of skin against skin. “Do you feel that?” He whispers. 

The night hums around you, you stay pressed to him, tense, a knot deep in you. You come down simultaneously, his head falls onto your shoulder, kissing you there. yours falls onto the rock behind you, gently. “You’re so beautiful.” He smiles softly, stroking your braids, kissing your forehead. 

You stay together for a moment before remembering you must get back to your children. The two of you rise quietly, brushing sand from your skin. Your movements are wobbly, so he steadies you. You place soft kisses upon his chest once more, and he catches your chin, pulling you into a gentle kiss. 

He tastes of fresh yovo fruit and seawater, your tongues explore each other's mouths, hands steady, clasping one another carefully. 

None of you speak much on the way back, but the silence is comfortable, full of unspoken understanding. 

When you slip inside, you see the faint outlines of the children, curled up together, asleep. Their breathing is steady, and the soft glow of the lantern casts a gentle halo around their forms. 

You pause at the doorway, watching them for a long moment. The weight of the evening’s tension lingers, but seeing them peaceful, you feel a warmth settle into your chest. He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you close, and you rest your head against his shoulder.

“they’re out cold,” he murmurs softly, his voice just above a whisper.

You nod, adjusting the blankets around the children with care. “They’re safe,” you reply, more to yourself than to him.

Neteyam climbs into your hammock that night, drawing you gently against his chest and holding you there until your breathing evens out.

The following morning, you notice the way Moi’at winces when he moves. Guilt coils in your stomach as you uncover the injury he tried so hard to hide. You take him straight to Ronal for proper bandaging, murmuring reassurances the entire walk.

Not long after, Neteyam leaves on a hunting trip with his brother and a few of the others, promising it will only be for a handful of days—though only Eywa herself knows how long it truly feels.

With him gone, the marui feels quieter… and heavier. The tension between you and Ni’alu stretches thin but unbroken. Some days she cannot even meet your eyes. Other days, she speaks only to ask, flatly, without warmth—if she may sleep over with Li’anu again.

“No, Ni’alu. You’ve already stayed there twice. Tsireya has her own children to care for, and your uncle Lo’ak is away hunting. She needs rest—not more little ones to manage.” 

“Then let me stay with Grandpa!” she snaps, writhing in frustration, a hiss slipping through her teeth.

“Excuse me?” You rise slowly, hands pulling away from the food you’d been preparing. Your voice isn’t loud—but it is firm. “Ni’alu, that is not an option. You are staying here tonight. End of discussion.”

Her small frame stiffens, arms crossed, jaw set tight. “You never listen!” she snaps, her voice breaking between anger and frustration.

“I am listening,” you say, stepping closer, softening your tone but keeping the firmness. “I heard you, and I understand that you’re upset. But throwing tantrums or running off isn’t going to make things fair or safe.”

She cries, burying herself in the blankets of her hammock. You wipe your hands, finishing up the food and calling Moi’at to eat.

Once he finishes, you guide him towards the exit, directing him to play with his cousins at the shoreline. 

You pause by Ni’alu’s hammock once back inside, watching her curl up under the blankets, small and tense. The soft glow from the sun made her look even more fragile than she did in the marui earlier.

You kneel beside her, brushing a loose braid from her face. “Ni’alu…” your voice is low, gentle, carrying no anger this time. She stiffens but doesn’t pull away.

“I was wrong,” you whisper, voice trembling. “I scared you. I let my fear take over, and it hurt you. I’m so sorry. I should have been there to guide you, to show you safely… instead of letting my fear control me.”

Ni’alu blinks, tears brimming but not falling yet. She whispers, “You mean it?”

“Yes,” you say softly, pulling her closer. “I mean it. Daddy  is away hunting with uncle Lo’ak, Aonung, and Rotxo for a few days, so it’s just us right now—but I want you to know something important. I love you. I want to protect you, but I also want to trust you. Can we try that together?”

Ni’alu hesitates, then slowly leans into you. You wrap your arms around her, holding her close. The two of you lie together on the hammock, bodies pressed softly, hearts slowing as the tension of the evening starts to melt. 

You close your eyes for a moment, and the memory comes unbidden—the day Ni’alu was born. The marui smells faintly of the same salt and warm herbs that filled the air that morning. You were exhausted, body trembling with pain and awe, hands slick and trembling as you held her for the first time.

Her tiny body pressed against yours, fragile and perfect, and the moment you touched her forehead with yours, the world fell away. Tsaheylu sparked between you—tendrils of warmth and life that you had never felt so intensely. Through that bond, you could feel her heartbeat, her breath, the tiny rise and fall of her chest. You could feel her confusion, her fear, her wonder, and you could wrap her in your calm, your love. 

“I love you so much,” you whisper gently, stroking her hair.

“I love you too mama” she finally smiles, turning to hold you tightly. 

The days pass carefully, too carefully. Neteyam is still away, still hunting with Lo’ak, Aonung, and Rotxo—a longer hunt, deeper into the forest territory. Three days, he promised. Maybe four. It’s been three. 

Moi’at remains at the Tsahìk’s marui while Ronal monitors his hand. The bark tore deeper than he admitted, and infection in the cold had settled into the cut. He pretends to be brave when you visit, but he winces when he flexes his fingers. Ronal insists he stay another few nights. 

So the marui is quiet, just you and Ni’alu. at first she moves around you cautiously, as if a loud noise might break something fragile between you again. But you make an effort. You sit with her while she weaves. You answer her small questions. You don’t avoid the word snow when it comes up. 

You do not offer everything, but you offer something. And she notices. One evening, she lays her head in your lap without asking. It feels like forgiveness. Your belly tightens more often those days. You tell yourself it is normal. It’s the third pregnancy. Your body is preparing.

But sometimes the tightening steals your breath in a way the others never did. Sometimes the baby shifts too sharply, too low.

On the fourth night without Neteyam, you wake from shallow sleep with a strange pressure in your spine.You sit up slowly, it passes. You say nothing.

Later that afternoon, you walk to the Tsahiks marui with your daughter to pick up Moi’at. He is proud when Ronal unwraps his hand one final time. “He may return,” she says, tying fresh wrapping securely around the healing skin. “But he must not climb, not fight, not test it.” Moi’at nods solemnly.

“Thank you, Ronal.” You smile, holding your son's hand. 

As you turn to leave, a sharp tightening pulls low across your abdomen. You pause, just briefly—one hand pressing instinctively to your belly. Ronal notices, her eyes narrowing. 

“You are well?” she asks, eyes soft with concern; a motherly instinct. 

“Yes,” you answer quickly, too quickly. “Just tired.”

She studies you for a beat longer than comfortable, then she nods. The walk back is slower. Moi’at chatters beside you, proud of his brave healing, his newly wrapped hand swinging at his side. Ni’alu runs ahead to show Li’anu a shell she found.

That night, the children are home, you cook, you braid Ni’alu’s hair. You help Moi’at settle carefully into his hammock so he does not jostle his hand. But you move slower than usual, you tell yourself it is nothing.

Before sleep, Ni’alu hugs you tightly. “I’m glad you’re not mad anymore,” she whispers.

You smooth her braids. “I was never mad. Only afraid.”

She smiles, and when the children finally drift to sleep, you sit alone for a long moment in the quiet marui, hand resting on your belly. The baby shifts low, way too low.

Before dawn,the pain wakes you. And this time, it does not fade. It is not gradual, it rips through you. You bolt upright in the hammock, a strangled sound escaping before you can swallow it down. Your hand flies to your belly. The baby moves, sharply, frantically. 

Another contraction hits before you can even breathe though the first, you slide from the hammock, knees barely catching you on the woven floor. “Okay, okay.” you whisper to yourself—but it is not okay. 

The pressure is crushing, your spine feeling as if it might split at any given time. You try to stand, try to reach for your comm, but your body is too heavy.  A broken gasp tears from your throat. 

That is what wakes the children, Ni’alu is first to sit up. “Mama?” 

You try to answer, but another wave crashes through you, stronger than anything before. “I- Go get grandma and Grandpa!” You gasp, panting desperately. 

She doesn’t hesitate, Moi’at, careful of his bandaged hand, follows her. You continue to cry out on the floor of your marui, just wishing your mate were here. 

Jake appears first, moving fast but careful, Neytiri close behind. Their eyes are immediately on you, in that moment, nothing else really exists.

“Y/n,” Jake says, voice low, firm, wrapping his hands around yours. “We’re here sweetheart. You’re not alone.”

He flips you onto your stomach carefully, more cries breaking from you.

Neytiri kneels beside you, her fingers brushing your hair from your damp forehead. “Sweet one… my precious,” she murmurs, her voice calm, anchoring. You clutch at her hand, drawing strength from the familiar warmth.

The children hover nearby, anxious but obedient, while Tuk and Kiri slip in behind them, curious and wide-eyed but silent, sensing the gravity of the moment. Moi’at is at your side, quietly murmuring comfort, a steady presence against the chaos of pain. Kiri prays silently at your ankles, holding them carefully. 

Your breaths come fast. Contractions hit harder than before, but surrounded by those who love you—by Jake’s steady strength, Neytiri’s calm touch, your children’s small, worried faces—you feel a thread of control in the storm. 

Jake’s hand hovers over the comm, hesitation flashing in his eyes. He swallows the lump in his throat and presses the page.

“Neteyam,” he calls, voice steady but urgent. “It’s… Y/n. She’s in labor. It’s early, complicated.”

Far across the forest, high over the canopy, Neteyam feels the vibration of the page through his ikran’s saddle. Aonung stiffens behind him, Neteyam’s heart jumps, his ikran responds to their bond, wings catching a therm. Lo’ak glances at him, alert, and Rotxo stiffens as well.

“Neteyam,” Jake’s voice repeats, clearer now, carrying across the comm. “I need you home, boy. Now.”

Neteyam’s jaw tightens. Three days of tracking, hunting… and now this. His mind snaps from the hunt to his family. He looks down at the forest far below.

He looks back at Aonung, riding with him, and then toward Lo’ak and Rotxo not far behind. “What is it?” Lo’ak calls over the wind, sensing the sudden shift in urgency.

“It’s Y/n,” Neteyam says, voice tight, “she’s in labor. We need to head back. Now” 

He grips the ikran saddle so tightly that his knuckles hurt. The wind begins to sound like your voice, his determination spikes—he needs to get home now. 

He redirects them, flying back to the village urgently.

The day drags. The forest moves in slow, endless ribbons below Neteyam as he flies, Aonung gripping the saddle tightly, Lo’ak and Rotxo not far behind. The wind presses against his face, but he barely feels it. Every mile between him and the village is a jagged pull at his chest. “Are you certain it’s serious?” Lo’ak shouts over the wind.

Neteyam’s jaw tightens. “Dad’s voice… It's urgent. She’s in labor. I cannot waste time.”

Aonung shifts slightly behind him. “We’ll get there,” he says, voice steady, but the tautness of his grip betrays his worry.

You clutch at your belly with each contraction, gasping, shaking, and your children hover near, eyes wide, hands small and tentative on your arms. Ni’alu whispers, “Mama… are you okay?” but you can only shake your head, gripping the mat below you as another wave crashes through you.

Jake keeps one hand on your shoulder, guiding you, murmuring low and steady words that are half comfort. Hours creep past. The sun moves slowly across the sky, then dips behind the distant ridges, casting the marui in shadows. You bite back a cry as the pressure sharpens, low and insistent. Every minute, every breath is agony. You can feel the baby shifting, too low, too fast—as if trying to find their way out, but unable. 

Your children cling to your sides. Moi’at squeezes your hand with his bandaged fingers, whispering encouragement that he doesn’t fully understand. And still, the sky beyond darkens, still Neteyam is far.

Stars began to prick the sky when several shadows appeared on the ridge. Your breath catches, a mixture of relief and desperation tearing through you.

“Neteyam…” you gasp, but the next contraction steals your words.

He lands in a heartbeat, ikran shaking the clearing beneath him. His chest heaves, sweat and exhaustion streaking his face, yet he runs, crouching beside you in the large space. “I’m here,” he says, voice low, urgent, and trembling. “I’m here. You’re safe. I’m here.”

You reach for him, every ounce of your strength pulling toward him, clinging to him as if he alone can carry you through the storm. He presses a hand to your shoulder, then to your belly, grounding you. “You’ve been so strong,” he whispers. “I won’t let go.” 

Neytiri slides her hand over his arm, murmuring softly. Jake steps back, giving you space, though his presence is steady and reassuring. Your children huddle near, wide-eyed, whispering and watching, held by Tuk. Moi’at at your side,  and Kiri, silent, but attentive.

Your body convulses with another contraction. You bite back a cry, but it escapes anyway. “It’s… too strong!” you gasp. “I—” Another wave hits, and Neteyam presses his forehead to yours, murmuring, “I know, I know. I’m right here. You’re not alone.”

Ronal steps in, eyes sharp and scanning, a small bundle of tools in her hands. “We need to move fast,” she says, voice calm but clipped. “This is complicated. I  need space.”

The others scatter, Neytiri takes your children to wait outside, Jake following closely behind. Lo’ak entertains them just outside, his children trying to peek glances at you, at their mother, going inside to help you. 

Tsireya slips in next, moving like water. She kneels behind you, one hand supporting your back, murmuring quietly, “Breathe, sweet one. Trust your strength.”

Another contraction slams you into the floor, trembling, sweat slicking your hair against your face. Your belly tightens impossibly, and you feel the baby shift, too low, too sharp. “I—I can’t—” you gasp, your voice breaking.

Neteyam does all he can to comfort you, every other time before this one— the twins’ birth was easier for you. He sits where Tsireya was, holding your head in his lap, supporting your shoulders. His hands press into your back, guiding the rhythm of your breathing.

He leans close, murmuring low praises, his hand never leaving your back. “You’re amazing. Our baby… it’s almost here. I’ve got you.”

The pressure spikes. Your body screams, your muscles trembling, sweat and tears mixing. Ronal’s voice cuts through the chaos. “Now push with me. One long push. Strong. You can do it.”

You cling to the warmth of every hand on you, summoning every ounce of strength. The air feels heavy, electric, and the ocean outside seems to hold its breath with you.

And then—a sharp, desperate cry. Your chest heaves. Your legs tremble. Relief and exhaustion crash over you as Ronal lifts the baby carefully into your arms. Warm, wet, crying, perfect. “She’s perfect,” she smiles.

You stare down at your daughter, her tiny fingers curling around yours, her eyes blinking open for the first time. Your heart aches with joy and exhaustion all at once. “You are ours… you are strong, and safe… you are loved.”

You collapse back against Neteyam, chest heaving, every muscle trembling. The baby is tucked to your chest, warm and small, and her cries begin to slow as she feels your heartbeat. You feel Neteyam’s breath brush against your hair, his hand stroking your back, grounding you in the dizzying aftermath of pain and relief.

Ronal adjusts a soft blanket around your shoulders and the baby, checking her quickly, murmuring, “Strong heartbeat… breathing steady… perfect weight.” Her hands linger only long enough to ensure safety, then she steps back, letting you catch your first quiet breaths with your daughter.

Tsireya kneels beside you, one hand gently brushing your damp hair from your face, the other smoothing the baby’s tiny head. “She’s beautiful,” she whispers. Her voice is calm, almost musical, and it eases the tremor in your hands.

Lo’ak, Neytiri, and Jake return with Moi’at and Ni’alu, peeking over the edge of the mat, leaning closer, eyes wide but soft. 

“Wow,” Lo’ak breathes. “She’s beautiful.” He steps back when Neteyam lifts his gaze, respecting the moment, but doesn’t leave—just watching, quiet and protective.

Your children creep closer, Ni’alu’s hand brushing the baby’s cheek, Moi’at holding her tiny fingers with his bandaged hand. “hello, little sister,” Ni’alu whispers, wide eyed, her voice full of awe. 

Neteyam leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, murmuring, “You did this. Our girl… our family.” His thumb brushes across your temple, then your hair, grounding you in the quiet after the storm of pain.

“I… I’m sorry,” you murmur, glancing at Neteyam, “I—this wasn’t how I planned… I wanted—”

“To give birth in the forest,” you finish weakly, the words trailing as your chest heaves. “Like before…”

Neteyam’s hand presses firmly to your cheek, tilting your head so your eyes meet his. His gaze is sharp, steady, unwavering. “Do not,” he says, low, and your words falter under the intensity of his presence.

“I just—” you start again, but he cuts you off, voice warm now, fierce in its tenderness. “Do not apologize,” he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then another to your temple. “You have given life. You have done something more than brave. You do not apologize for this, for anything. Not now. Not ever.”

You stare at him, tears slipping freely down your face, your shoulders trembling. His hands circle yours, resting over the tiny body of your daughter, anchoring you both.

“You are incredible,” he whispers, voice thick with emotion. “Our children… our family… It is here because of you. Nothing else matters.”

You let yourself lean into him, exhausted, overwhelmed, but safe. You murmur a quiet, “I love you,” and he presses a kiss to your hair, murmuring back, “and I love you.”

The baby stirs softly in your arms, tiny hands curling around your fingers, and the tension in your chest loosens just a little. You had feared failure, feared being selfish, feared the world shifting beneath your feet, but his presence, his unwavering certainty, tells you that this moment is exactly where you are meant to be.

The marui is quiet now, the chaos of labor replaced by the soft, steady rhythm of your breathing. You cradle your daughter against your chest, feeling her tiny warmth seep into you, each rise and fall of her chest echoing against your own. Ni’alu presses her cheek gently to the baby’s, whispering little promises you cannot hear but can feel—words spun from awe and love. 

Moi’at sits close, his bandaged hand brushing yours as if to anchor you both, eyes wide but steady, proud and careful. You let yourself sink into this moment, letting every inch of exhaustion and fear dissolve into the weight of her small body in your arms.

You feel the connection—not just between you and your daughter, but stretching through Neteyam’s steady presence, through your children’s cautious wonder, through the bonds of your community. The air vibrates with life, and for a moment, you are weightless, held in a circle of love and vigilance.

Ronal shifts closer, her eyes soft as they sweep over you and the baby. “She needs a name,” she says gently, voice steady, but you can hear the quiet encouragement beneath it. You glance down at your daughter, the small rise and fall of her chest, the tiny fingers curling around yours. Her presence feels enormous, and suddenly, the perfect name seems impossibly elusive.

Ni’alu tilts her head, wide-eyed, whispering, “Can I help, Mama?” You smile through your exhaustion, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. “Of course, love. We all get to help.” Moi’at leans closer as well, his hand still near yours, and you feel Neteyam’s steady warmth as he shifts slightly to wrap an arm around your shoulder.

Ronal watches carefully, then offers softly, “Names carry meaning. They carry strength, guidance, and hope. Think of the qualities you wish to honor in her.” The words hang in the air, and you feel the weight of them, the responsibility—but also the joy. You trace the baby’s tiny hand, feeling her pulse, and murmur, “She is… fierce already, gentle, and brave. I can feel it”

Neteyam smiles at the children, then looks down at you. His voice is quiet, tender. “What do you feel, my love? What name calls to you?” You lift your gaze, meeting his steady eyes and feel the name take shape in your heart. “Kìreytsìl,” you whisper, letting the syllables roll off your tongue, soft but certain. “She is dawn of hope.”

Ni’alu beams, brushing her fingers over the baby’s hand. “Kìreytsìl,” she repeats, marveling. Moi’at echoes the name, and even the baby seems to press closer, her tiny fingers curling tighter around yours. Neteyam smiles, pressing his forehead gently to yours, whispering, “Kìreytsìl… She is perfect just like you.”

The marui quiets at last, the children guided outside by Neytiri and Lo’ak, their whispers fading with each step. You sink back against the mat, your body trembling, muscles sore and spent, the newborn tucked carefully to your chest. Only Neteyam remains, his presence steady, warm, calming you in the dizzying aftermath of labor.

He moves gently, retrieving a soft cloth and a small bowl of clear river water. “Let me,” he murmurs, his voice low, sure, tender. You nod, too exhausted to speak, and he kneels before you, dipping the cloth in the water, wringing it carefully. 

His hands brush your soft, sensitive skin as he cleans between your legs, then move with painstaking care over Kìreytsìl, wiping away the remnants of birth. The water is cool, fresh, and every careful motion from him feels like a vow—protection, love, and reverence.

Once both of you are clean, Neteyam sits back slightly, letting you adjust Kìreytsìl against your chest. You watch her tiny mouth, her tiny hands curling at your collarbones, and feel an instinct stirring deep inside, a mix of awe and tenderness. You lift her closer, guiding her to your breast for the first time. Her small lips find your skin, and she nurses, instinctive and perfect. Warmth floods your chest, and you feel the thread of life connecting you, fragile but unbreakable.

Neteyam leans closer, his hand resting over yours on the baby’s back, thumb brushing lightly against Kìreytsìl’s tiny spine.

His forehead rests gently against yours. You close your eyes, letting yourself simply be—mother, mate, held, protected. feeling the gentle suckle of Kìreytsìl, the warmth of Neteyam, and the quiet certainty that this moment is yours alone, sacred and unhurried.

Time slips in the soft instant of nursing as your child lays her head down against you, your kept nails brushing softly against her new skin. Neteyam watches with silent admiration—he loves watching you be a mother. He plants the seeds, watches them grow, then watches you blossom into the mother you were always destined to be. 

Several weeks of blissful motherhood go by, villagers bringing gifts of love to you and your family, the children connecting with their baby sister—and you, telling the stories of your people. Kíreytsìl was born your daughter—pure kray’na. This time you would not let down on showing your children their roots. 

Neteyam prepared for the trip as soon as you said you were ready, flying your family out to the mountains in weaved, fuzzy shawls which you kept hidden in your baskets, dressing the children and allowing them to know the snow, see and meet their ancestors, to connect with the spirit tree that, even after all these years—had not fallen. 

Kíreytìl was communed with Eywa in the same place you had once called home. This time, your child’s life would be celebrated in three places—the mountains, the forest, and the reef. 

The return to the reef was special, calm in a way words could not express. You were at peace—your children understood now, where you came from, where their unusually large fangs had come from, and where your daughter's white hair had emanated from. 

Now you lay silently in the comfort of your marui, Neteyam holding you close, Kíreytsìl enswathed in a prrsmung against your chest, feeding from your breasts. Ni’alu and Moi’at lay against Neteyam, arms wrapped tightly around their father. 

His hands stroked her cheek carefully as she fed, nose nudged softly against your neck, inhaling your scent. “I love you,” he mutters.

“Mm I love you.” You smile, his fingers drift from her cheek to your hip, then settle over the soft swell of your stomach where your body is still healing. 

“You’re sore,” he says, not a question. 

“Yes.”

He nods once, absorbing that like information he needs to store. His thumb presses lightly into your lower back, testing at first. When you flinch, he adjusts without comment and begins kneading gently. You exhale before you can stop yourself.

“Better?” He huffs.

“Yes.” 

Your words are small, but he keeps going. 

Later, when the children wake, the marui fills with noise, Tuk and Pril running about, playing with your children—obsessing over Kíritsìl. You let it happen, leaning back against the woven wall and watching them.

Your body aches in places you don’t talk about, your breasts are heavy. Your hips feel wider, slower. You are softer in several places for now, Neteyam notices that too.

When the children run out to meet their cousins at the shallows, he stays behind. He pins the flaps shut quietly. You look at him, eyebrow lifting. “What?” 

“Nothing,” he says—which always means something. 

He crosses the space slowly, kneeling in front of you and pushing your skirt up just slightly—not indecent or urgent, just enough to see the faint stretch of your skin, the subtle bruising of birth, his jaw tightens.

“Do not look at me like that,” you mutter, hands moving to cover yourself.

“Like what baby?” His eyes do not leave your thighs, featherlight touches are placed there. 

“Like I am wounded prey.” 

His eyes snap up immediately. “You are not prey.” 

“Then stop frowning.” He exhales through his nose, softer now. His hands move carefully, reverently over your thighs, your hips—just assessing.

You study his face, there is no disgust, no distance, just awe. 

The soreness settles deeper at night. It isn’t sharp anymore. Just a low, constant ache in your hips and breasts, like your bones haven’t quite decided where they belong yet, you try not to show it—but Neteyam notices the way you shift when you stand. The way you brace your palm against the wall before straightening. The way you lower yourself carefully instead of fluidly. He says nothing about it during the day, just steadies you.

That afternoon, you wash Kìreytsìl yourself without any help. The water is warm from sitting in the sun. She startles when you lower her in, tiny limbs jerking—but you murmur softly and she settles against your palms. 

Ni’alu sits beside you, chin in her hands. “We were this small?” 

“Yes.” You smile softly, glancing at her for a beat. 

“No,” Moi’at interrupts confidently. “I was bigger.” 

You laugh, a wet, jovial sound. “You were loud.” 

Neteyam sits behind you, repairing a spear shaft. He watches the way your hands support the baby’s head. The way your thumbs rub gentle circles over her ribs.

“You can help,” you say without turning. 

“With what?” 

“Her hair will dry wild if you do not soothe it.” He sets the spear down immediately, crouching beside you carefully. His hands look almost ridiculous next to her tiny skull and he hesitates. “You won’t break her,” you murmur.  

“I know that, baby.” 

But he is still careful, you guide his fingers, show him the direction to smooth, the pressure to use. His tongue presses lightly into his cheek for concentration, just like when he twists Moi’at’s curls, or when he braids Ni’alu’s hair. 

He glances at you once, catches you staring—a small smirk plays at his face. “What?” 

“Nothing.” You say, but your chest feels full in ways that have nothing to do with milk.

It happens for the third night in a row, Kìreytsìl feeds often, maybe too often. By the time the marui quiets and the baby finally sleeps, your breasts ache in a deep, swollen way that makes even fabric brushing against you feel like too much.

You try to ignore it, but your mate doesn’t. “Come here baby,” he murmurs behind you.

“I am here”

“Closer. Come on.” Based on your tone, Neteyam could tell something was bothering you. 

You back up—barely. He shifts closer anyway. His hand slides over your stomach first, grounding. Then slowly upward, pausing just beneath your ribs. “May I?” he asks quietly.

That’s what makes your throat tighten, he waits for your answer, and you just nod—you know you need it. 

His hand cups your breasts carefully, testing the weight, the heat. You flinch before you can stop yourself. “Too much?”

“A little bit.”

He adjusts immediately, applying less pressure, moving slower. His thumb moves in gentle circles along the side rather than the center, easing the tight pull without pressing where you’re most sensitive. His other hand mirrors it, patient, steady.

You didn’t realize how heavy they felt until he supported them fully, a tight breath finally leaves you. “There’s so much tension,” he murmurs softly, almost frowning. “You should not have to sit with this.”

“It’s normal,” you whisper.

“That does not mean you endure it alone. Tell me next time.” 

His palms warm you slowly, easing the tightness with careful pressure the way you showed him on your back earlier. When he feels where you’re most swollen, he adjusts again—careful not to hurt, careful not to stimulate too much, just enough to relieve the ache.

You relax back against him. “That’s better,” you admit quietly. His chin rests on your shoulder as he continues, slow and methodical.

“You give so much,” he says. “Let me give back.”

The soreness softens under his touch, not gone, but manageable. Supported. When he finally stills his hands, he doesn’t pull away. He simply leaves them there, warm and protective, holding you gently against his chest.

You cover his fingers with your own. “Thank you,” you whisper. He presses a soft kiss to your temple.

“Always.” 

The sun melts into the horizon in streaks of gold and violet. The sea glows like liquid light. Aonung has built a small fire pit on the sand. Rotxo pretends he did most of the work. Tuk insists she helped. No one argues.

Tsireya passes around roasted shellfish wrapped in leaves. Kiri hums softly while braiding Tuk’s hair. Lo’ak is already halfway through teasing Neteyam about how emotional he looked in the snow.

You laugh, leaning into Neteyam’s side. He shakes his head but his arm slides around your waist automatically, pulling you closer.

Aonung nudges him. “You look softer.”

Neteyam smirks. “That’s because I don’t have to fight you every morning anymore.”

Tsireya gasps dramatically. “You two were impossible.”

“We were competitive,” Aonung corrects.

“You were children,” Kiri says calmly.

The others go to the water, leaving just you and Neteyam. You shift closer, his hand slides to your waist, thumb brushing slow circles against your skin. Your foreheads touch first—that familiar pause. That shared breath.

He kisses you like he always does—slow at first, testing. Giving you space to pull back if you want, and when you don't, when your fingers curl into the fabric at his waist, his other hand moves to your jaw, tilting your face slightly. The kiss deepens, not heated,  just steady. Intentional. When you pull back, you stay close enough that your noses brush.

“Let’s go before they start wrestling without us.” He laughs. Already dragging you to the water, when you dive in, he goes the complete opposite direction—towards the men, and you, of course, go towards Kiri, Tsireya and Tuk. 

You swim with your found sisters, for the first time in a long time, since the war, since living to protect your children, you feel just like a kid again. Sneaking off to swim with the friends who had found you in a cave. 

The night stretches, and you grow tired, so Neteyam takes you home. Not to the mountains, or the forest, just wherever he is going.

It’s casual, muttered between swigs of beer to the other new guys, but it makes her stomach drop.

“Got kicked to the curb by her family—”

Her heart rises to her throat.

“—but hey, at least she had Cameron to knock her up. Now she’s set for life, right?”

Silence.

The kind that makes the hairs on the back of Y/N’s neck stand up, she knows exactly what’s about to happen. She watches the way Rafe's shoulders stiffen, the muscle in his jaw ticks, his grip on his beer tightening like he’s two seconds away from crushing the glass.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

His voice drops slow and controlled but lethal. The guy, oblivious or maybe just plain fucking stupid, grins and shrugs.

“Chill, man. I just meant- ”

Wrong move.

Y/N is already standing, her heart in her throat. She doesn’t give a fuck about the comment itself— it’s Rafe she’s worried about. Rafe, who’s already moving. He steps forward, beer bottle still in hand, shoulders squared.

“Nah, go ahead. Say it again.”

He challenges the guy who now shifts on his feet chuckling, but there’s an edge of nervousness evident in his actions.

“Jesus man, it was a joke.”

“Oh yeah? Not fuckin’ funny.”

Rafe’s jaw clenches at his petty excuse. Y/N barely has time to react before he shoves the guy back.

Hard.

Not enough to knock him down- but enough to make a statement.  Enough to make everyone around them go silent. His fist tighten by his sides and Kelce mutters something under his breath looking over to Topper who sighs, shaking his head.

“Don’t fuckin' talk about her like that.”

His voice is deadly, protective, and it makes Y/N’s breath catch. Her throat is tight, her skin burning. Not because of what the guy said- but because he wasn’t entirely wrong. She’s heard it before.

Lucky to have Rafe.

Lucky to have their daughter.

Lucky because otherwise she’d have nothing.

She swallows hard, blinking fast but Rafe sees red and he shoves the guy again, harder this time. Kelce lets out a low whistle and Topper rubs a hand down his face. Y/N moves quickly, stepping between the two guys, one hand pressing against Rafe’s chest. She can feel how hard his heart is pounding, how tense his muscles are, like he’s just waiting for an excuse to swing.

“Rafe, stop.”

He doesn’t move. Just stares the guy down, nostrils flaring as he opens his mouth again to say something but is cut off- a tiny giggle.

Y/N whips around at the sound.

Their daughter is still sitting in the grass, completely oblivious to the tension, laughing as she claps her hands, watching her daddy like she thinks this is just another game. It’s enough to make Y/N’s stomach drop. Rafe must notice it too, because his shoulders drop slightly. He doesn’t turn away from the guy, but he exhales sharply through his nose.

“You’re fuckin’ lucky I have my kid with me.”

The guy doesn’t say anything. Just nods before stumbling back, shoving his hands into his pockets. Rafe rolls his eyes at him, shaking out his shoulders. Y/N stares at him, momentarily unsure of what to say as she watches the guys walk away.

“You can’t keep doing this.”

He scoffs.

“Yeah? What, I’m just supposed to let him run his mouth?”

“You have your daughter with you, Rafe.”

That’s what matters. That’s what she cares about. Rafe’s gaze flickers to their baby girl, still sitting on the grass, still smiling at him and something softens in his expression. He shakes his head, muttering something under his breath before bending down and scooping her up.

“C’mon, princess. Let’s go home.”

Y/N doesn’t argue. Just lets him lift their daughter into his arms as he adjusts her small white hat, her tiny hand clutching onto his shirt. She watches him as they walk towards the car, feeling exhausted but knowing one thing for certain:

Rafe Cameron will never let anyone disrespect his family.