She considers this while wading to shore. “That's disturbing.”
“That's biology.”
“Your biology fucked up my biology.”
“Female's biology was waiting for mine.”
She wakes genuinely pregnant.
Not the temporary swelling of proto-eggs. Her belly has changed shape overnight, rounding lower and fuller. The eggs have settled into position, each one claiming space. When she moves, they shift with her.
“How?” She examines her transformed belly in the morning light. “How did it change so fast?”
“Body was ready. Been preparing since first proto-egg. Just needed real ones to complete transformation.”
She stands with difficulty, adjusting to the new weight. “Everything feels different.”
“Everything is different.”
I help her navigate the shelter with her shifted balance. She's determined to maintain routine but has to modify everything. Climbing is harder. Bending is nearly impossible. But she adapts with the same stubborn determination that made her throw rocks at shadows.
“Stop hovering,” she snaps when I follow too closely.
“Not hovering. Protecting.”
“From what? Gravity?”
“From everything.”
She throws a fruit at me but I catch it, bite through the skin. “Female still has good aim.”
“Female still has good everything.”
“Yes,” I agree, watching her waddle to the platform edge. “Female has perfect everything.”
Five days and her belly has expanded noticeably. The eggs are growing, each one developing the life inside. She lies in our nest while I check each one, using heat vision to monitor heartbeats.
“All twenty-three?” she asks.
“All twenty-three. Strong. Healthy.”
“Excessive,” she mutters, but her hand rests protectively over them.
We've modified the shelter for her changing needs. Lower platforms. Back support. Everything within reach. She pretends to hate the accommodations but uses them constantly.
“This is nesting,” I tell her as she arranges moss for the tenth time.
“This is practical.”
“Female is nesting.”
“Female is organizing efficiently.”
But she's smiling as she says it. She knows what she's doing. Preparing for something her body understands even if her mind resists.
That night she can't get comfortable. The eggs press on everything—bladder, organs, spine. I coil beneath her, letting her use my body as support. She finds a position that works, sighs with relief.
“Three months of this,” she says.
