You groan, shifting on the too-small mattress that somehow still creaks under the weight of three people. The baby presses against your ribs, your swollen belly nestled uncomfortably against Joel’s soft stomach. Your legs are tangled in his, and you’re sweating despite the breeze sneaking through the cracked window.

You try to turn, needing relief from the pressure in your hips, but it’s not easy—your center of gravity is all off. Eventually, you manage it, only to be met with a familiar pair of eyes watching you. Tess lies on her side, propped up slightly, her hand warm as it glides up your arm to your cheek.

Her touch is gentle, but her expression isn’t. Tess never looks soft. Even when she’s caring for you. Especially when she’s caring for you.

“What is it?” she murmurs, voice low and scratchy from sleep or maybe disuse.

You hesitate, then shake your head.

“Just uncomfortable,” you admit. “The baby’s been doing flips or something.”

Tess’s eyes drop to your belly before flicking back up. She’s quiet for a beat, her thumb stroking across your cheek in a rare show of tenderness. She doesn’t say anything comforting, not like other people might. She’s not that kind of woman. But she stays close, and that’s enough. You’ve learned with Tess, presence means everything. She only disappears when she’s bleeding or killing.

They’ve been keeping you in the apartment for what feels like forever. They claim it’s for your safety—and maybe it is—but sometimes it feels more like containment. Like they’re afraid the world might touch you and take away what they’ve clawed back with blood and fear.

It’s not that they scare you exactly… it’s that you’ve seen what they become when something threatens you.

Tess is the best at hiding it. She comes home with dirt on her boots and blood on her sleeves and acts like it’s nothing. She hands you things—salt, aspirin, a book someone was throwing away—and sits with you on the couch, talking about nursery wallpaper like she didn’t just shoot someone in the woods.

Joel doesn’t even try to hide it. His hands shake when he’s angry. His eyes stay far away for hours. But he’s the one who cooks you breakfast every morning, who rubs your back when you cry at night and you don’t know why.

You gave them something they thought they’d never have again. A second chance. A family.

Their protectiveness isn’t just about you. It’s about what you represent. Future. Redemption. A life worth staying alive for.

You hear a sharp inhale behind you, the sound of someone waking. Then thick arms wrap around you from behind. Joel groans, his voice gravelly with sleep, and he pulls you closer, pressing his face into the space between your shoulder blades. You feel the soft scratch of his beard, the solid strength of his chest against your back, and despite the discomfort, you let yourself relax just a little.

When Joel found out Tommy was still alive and safe in Jackson, he knew it was time. He didn’t want the baby born in a FEDRA-run QZ, under armed guards and rationed heat. He didn’t want your child in one of their cold, sterile classrooms, taught by people who’d long since given up on hope.

So he left the QZ with you and Tess, risking everything, like he always does when it’s someone he loves.

Jackson was like something out of a dream after the chaos and filth you’d known. Tommy had settled down, even married—a sharp woman named Maria who ran the place like a mayor and a mother at once. She gave you a house, a modest place but clean and safe. There was a big bed, and windows with curtains. Joel and Tess made a nursery out of one of the bedrooms. Joel built the crib himself, even though he cursed under his breath the entire time.

You started to sew again, simple things at first—blankets, tiny socks, a soft stuffed rabbit. Tess traded cigarettes and ammo for baby clothes, little onesies a grandmother had saved in a cedar chest. You folded them one by one, tears in your eyes, because for the first time in years, you let yourself believe your baby might be born into a world that wasn’t hell.