Her hand leaves my ribs. She reaches for the radio with trembling fingers and pushes the button before I can help her. Her eyes go wide again.
“Yes,” she says.
Clearer. Stronger.
Rue goes quiet for one full beat. Then: “After supper. Under the pine. Bring the cradle, boy.”
The line clicks dead. Briar stares at the radio. I take the mic gently from her hand and set it aside. Then I frame her face in both palms and kiss her, slow and deep and full of everything I can’t say without breaking.
“Tonight,” I whisper against her mouth.
Her smile shakes. “Yes.”
And this time, when she says it, she sounds certain.
I don’t let her go far after that.
Not because I’m afraid she’ll disappear. That fear has changed shape now. It isn’t a claw in my throat anymore. It’s deeper. Quieter. The kind of awe that makes a man careful with his hands.
Briar stays close while I cross to the storage closet and kneel, reaching underneath for the bundle I shoved there weeks ago. Fur wrapped around wood. Weight I’ve carried in my chest longer than I knew her name.
She watches me lower it to the floor.
Her head tilts. Her fingers brush my shoulder as if asking what it is before I speak.
“There’s one more thing,” I say.
I peel back the fur.
The cradle catches the light. Smooth sides. Hand-sanded curves. The grain dark and warm under the oil I rubbed into it with my own palms. It isn’t fancy. It was never meant to be. Just strong. Steady. Built to hold what matters without splintering under the weight.
Briar drops to her knees beside it. Her fingertips hover above the wood like she’s afraid it might vanish if she comes at it too fast. When she finally lays her hand on the rim, her breath leaves her in a soft rush.
I sit on my heels and watch her see it.
“Every man in this clan carves one,” I tell her. “Not for a baby. Not at first. Not always.” My voice roughens. “It’s a promise. That he means to build somethin’ that lasts. A place for whatever life his mate and him choose to make.”
Her eyes lift to mine, wet and bright.
I shake my head once, hard, because I need this part said plain. “You do not owe me children. You do not owe me any part of your body to make this meaningful. I carved it because when I thought about a future worth wanting, you were already in it.”
That undoes her.
She touches the cradle, then her fingers drift back to my chest. Back and forth once, as if measuring the truth of both. Her throat works. I see the effort gather there, the shock of wanting language and not trusting it yet.
“Ours,” she says.
The word lands between us. It comes out scraped raw, but it is there.
My whole chest caves in.
I bow my head, touching my forehead to hers, one hand braced on the cradle between us. “Yeah, sweet girl,” I say, barely getting the word out. “Ours.”
She smiles then. Small. Shaky. More beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen.
I wrap the fur around the cradle and lift it carefully. Briar rises with me and places one hand on the wood as if she can’t bear to lose contact with it yet.
Outside, the light is turning gold at the edges.
