It had started with one small twitch.

An egg near the center of the nest had shifted—barely noticeable unless you were looking for it. But Soap had noticed. He was watching. He always watched.

"Oi," he hissed toward the back of the cave, not even turning his head. "One of 'em moved. Again."

Ghost didn't respond right away. He was elbow-deep in a pot over the fire, mixing something he called “human comfort food” with herbs you couldn’t pronounce. You weren’t sure what a stew was supposed to taste like, but Ghost swore up and down it helped with nerves.

"That’s the fourth time you’ve said that in an hour," Ghost called back dryly. "You sure it’s not just your tail twitchin’ and rattlin’ the whole nest?"

"It’s them," Soap insisted, voice sharp with emotion. "I know it is."

You smiled softly, resting a hand on the warm curve of your belly, coils nested protectively around the seven speckled eggs. The heat of your body had become their world. Familiar. Safe. And Soap had made sure no danger ever got close enough to even think about threatening it.

Since you’d laid, he had barely left the cave. Only Ghost ventured out now, climbing the stone cliffs to gather food, herbs, or bark for fire. Soap never let you or the clutch out of his sight. Sometimes it was overwhelming—the weight of his worry—but deep down, you understood.

This was his first clutch.

Your first together.

And he was terrified.

Ghost set the pot aside and wandered over, wiping his hands on a rough cloth. He crouched beside the nest and placed his palm gently against one of the eggs.

“They’re warm,” he murmured. “Strong.”

Soap was already there—half-coiled beside you, body curved like a wall around the both of you. His eyes flicked between Ghost and the eggs like a hawk watching for threats. “They better be.”

“You’re wound tight as a bowstring,” Ghost said. “You know they can feel that, right?”

“They should feel it,” Soap growled. “They should know their da’s ready to bite the throat outta anything that comes near.”

“They’re eggs.”

“They’re our eggs.”

You reached out and took Soap’s hand, squeezing it gently. “They’re safe, Soldier. You made sure of that. We both did.”

He softened immediately, leaning down to press his forehead against yours. “I just… I can’t stop picturing something goin’ wrong. Something slippin’ past me. I’ve seen what happens to nests left alone too long. Or—hell—even ones that weren’t guarded close enough. One scent trail, and—"

“They’re not alone,” Ghost interrupted, firm but calm. “You’re not the only one here, Soap.”

He reached across the eggs, brushing his fingers down Soap’s arm, grounding him with touch.

“I know you’ve got instincts clawing at your throat, but we’re not out in the wild anymore. No predators. No poachers. No other naga wandering too close. This cave is warded, watched, and buried half into a cliff.”

Soap let out a breath. Slow. Long. He rested a hand on one of the eggs, thumb stroking over the shell like it was porcelain.

“I want to be calm,” he said quietly. “But every little noise outside… I keep thinking it’s someone coming for them. For you.” He glanced at you, then Ghost. “For both of you.”

“They won’t get past you,” you whispered. “They never have.”

One of the eggs shuddered beneath his palm.

Then another.

All three of you stilled.

“Did—did that one just—”

The egg cracked.

A thin, jagged line split across the top.

Soap made a sound in his throat—choked and disbelieving. “No bloody way…”

You sat up straighter, supporting yourself with your arms as the first hatchling worked to push its way free. Ghost leaned in, breath caught in his chest, while Soap looked like he might either pass out or bite someone.

The shell cracked further, a tiny head poking through, followed by a thin, flicking tongue and a pair of large, dark eyes.