The house Joel built with his own hands sits at the edge of Jackson, quiet, a little isolated, just the way he likes it.

You’ve been his wife for eight winters now. You don’t go on patrol. You don’t leave town without telling him. Your place is here, raising the kids, keeping the home warm, and his bed warmer.

The children fill every corner of the house. Hope’s 8 now, quiet and capable, setting plates without being asked. The twins, Elijah and Beth, age 6, bicker over biscuits while 3-year-old Jonah throws his fork again, giggling. And then...there's one on the way. It's loud, messy, full of life. The kind of life he built for you, especially after Sarah.

But tonight, something's wrong.

Joel sits at the table, says nothing when you hand him his plate. No hand to your waist. No soft “thanks, baby.”

Just a mutter, low and sharp: “Didn’t know folks touch you like that now.”

You pause, confused. Then realise.

Earlier today, you’d gone to the trade hall with the older kids. Sugar, flour, maybe eggs. And then, Caleb, that new patrol kid, stopped by your stall. Said something about how young you looked for a mother of four. Laughed. His hand brushed your belly.

Joel must’ve seen.

Now, he cuts his food in silence. The tension is thick, curling in the corners like smoke.

You chew. Swallow. Breathe.

Because when the table’s cleared, the house goes quiet, and the kids are asleep... Joel will remind you, slow and certain, who you belong to.