I think briefly about telling him the truth—that my body feels heavy and unfamiliar. That the ache low in my abdomen hasn’t disappeared just because we finally know what is causing it. That underneath the relief is a fear so sharp it scrapes against me every time I let myself think too far ahead.
“Tired. Overwhelmed.”
That part’s true at least.
He studies me for a second, reading whatever I allow him to see. I let him have the relief. The shock. The disbelief I’m still trying to catch up to myself.
The rest stays hidden.
After a moment, he nods once.
“You rest. I’ll clean up.”
We’ve always had a system. Out here, routines matter because survival depends on them. Cleanup is usually my responsibility—washing things down, clearing scraps, and making sure nothing gets left behind that could attract animals or cause problems later.
Normally I’d argue. This time, I don’t.
I stay where I am with one hand resting lightly over the curve of my stomach. I breathe slowly through everything tangled underneath this moment—the ache low in my abdomen, the faint movement I can still barely believe is real, the fear sitting quietly beneath all of it.
We are three now.
One of us is very small and completely dependent on the other two getting this right.
I intend to get it right.
Dane comes back a few minutes later with water, already moving differently somehow. Like every part of him has already aligned itself around this one new fact.
He crouches beside me first to hand me the water, then settles into the sand nearby, attention fixed on my face.
“Are you in any pain?”
He’s already trying to assess things I haven’t said out loud yet.
“Some, but it’s probably normal.”
It isn’t.
He studies me for a second, deciding whether to push further. He doesn’t. Not yet. Instead, he nods once.
“Tell me if it changes.”
“I will.”
He reaches over and brushes a piece of hair back from my face, tucking it behind my ear. His hand lingers briefly against my jaw afterward.
When I look at him, I see it again—that change in him.
The man who knelt in the sand and spoke to his child for the first time.
I love him for the pearls. For the marks carved into the tree. For bringing me water without being asked. I love him for the way he absorbs responsibility.
And I love him for not pressing me when he knows something’s wrong.
He’s already protecting someone he can’t see yet. Already planning around a life that exists only inside me for now.
I watch him settle beside me again, his attention drifting back toward my stomach. When his hand rests there, I place mine over it.
Beneath both our palms, something small moves.
