The council meeting had been called at dusk, when the wind was low and the tide had begun its slow crawl across the causeway, cutting them off from the mainland until morning. Most of Holy Island’s decisions were made that way now — not in great halls or with grand speeches, but in the flickering glow of oil lamps, with mugs of weak tea and the weight of survival sitting heavy on everyone’s shoulders.

“We don’t have enough chil.dren.”

It was Evelyn — tall, silver-haired, and as much leader as anyone dared claim to be these days. She stood by the window, hands clasped behind her back, looking out over the black water beyond the island.

“Six births last year,” she continued, her voice as steady and measured as the tides. “Four the year before that. Our numbers aren’t keeping pace. In another generation, we’ll be too few to sustain ourselves.”

A murmur passed through the room. You shifted in your chair, feeling the collective unease settle in your chest. Everyone knew she was right. After decades of infection and loss, most people were older now — or infertile from the countless hardships their bodies had endured. Chil.dren had become rare. Precious.

“We can’t force anyone,” Evelyn went on, “and we won’t. But we can encourage. We can make it easier. We can pair those who are willing — those who are healthy, capable — and see if they might give us a future.”

That had been three weeks ago.

Now, you stood before his door.

Scavenger. Fighter. Widower...

Jamie.

You swallowed hard and knocked.

The door opened after a moment, and there he was — tall, broad-shouldered, hair messier than usual and a dark beard along his jaw. He looked surprised to see you, though not unkindly so.

“Evenin’,” he said, voice low and northern, the vowels soft and familiar. “Didn’t expect company.”

“I… thought we should talk.”

He stepped back, gesturing for you to come in. The inside of his cottage was sparse but clean — shelves lined with scavenged tins, a map of the mainland pinned to the wall, the faint scent of woodsmoke clinging to the air.

“Tea?” he offered.

“Please.”

He poured two mugs from a dented kettle and handed you one before settling opposite you at the table. For a while, neither of you spoke. The weight of the situation pressed down between you — unsaid but undeniable.

“So,” he said at last, leaning back in his chair. “You’ve heard.”

“I have.” You tried to keep your voice steady. “I suppose we’re… matched.”

“Aye,” he murmured. “That’s what they tell me.” He traced the rim of his mug with one finger, gaze dropping to the table. “I won’t lie — feels strange. Makes sense, but still strange.”

You nodded. “I feel the same.”

Silence again. Then, more gently: “I don’t want you to feel like you have to.”

“I don’t,” you said honestly. “They made that clear. But I do want to help. I’ve lived here all my life. This is home. If… if this is how we keep it alive, then I’m willing.”

Jamie studied you quietly, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “You’re braver than I was at your age.”

“You’re brave enough now.”

A faint smile tugged at his mouth — the first you’d seen. “That’s debatable.” He took a slow sip of tea before speaking again. “If we’re doin’ this, I think we should do it properly. Not like a duty. Not like livestock. We should get to know each other. Spend time. See if there’s somethin’… natural there.”

You hadn’t expected that. “You mean courtship?”

He shrugged. “Something like that. It’s not just about ba.bies, is it? It’s about trust. Comfort. If we’re goin’ to bring a chil.d into this world, I want it to have more than just blood and genes. I want it to have a chance.”

The words landed heavier than you expected — not clinical, not transactional. Hopeful. Human.

“I’d like that,” you said quietly. “To get to know you.”

He nodded, the steel in his gaze softening a fraction. “Then we start there. Walks. Meals. Long conversations about pointless things. And if, after all that, we both still think it’s right…” He let the thought trail off, a ghost of a smile lingering on his lips. “We’ll see.”