The late leaf-fall sun cast warm gold through the thinning canopy, dappling the camp clearing with trembling light. The chill of early dusk began to settle, curling like mist along the ground, but it did nothing to calm Roachfang’s nerves. His tail lashed once, then again, as he paced near the warriors’ den, sharp eyes flicking toward the entrance every few heartbeats. The moss outside the nursery was cold—too cold for her to be out in. Especially now, especially so close to kitting.

“She said she was just going to stretch her legs,” murmured Sorrelshade, lounging near the camp entrance, licking a paw. “You’d think you were the one about to give birth, the way you're fretting.”

Roachfang gave her a look that could curdle freshkill. “She’s due within days. If not tonight. She shouldn’t even be walking far, let alone—hunting.” Sorrelshade shrugged. “You try stopping her. That one’s got fire in her belly.”

He growled low in his throat, pacing once more before shooting out through the gorse tunnel, paws thudding softly against the earth as he followed the wind—her scent sharp and clean among the leaf mold and pine needles. He knew her trail by heart. Too well, by now. This wasn’t the first time she'd snuck out in defiance of common sense. The path wound near the stream. That only made his hackles rise higher.

She was crouched beside a root-tangled maple, ears twitching as she stalked a scrawny vole. Her belly was unmistakably swollen, fur tugged tight over the curve of her kits. Still, her tail was steady, paws light. Until he stepped on a stick. She whipped her head around, startled, but the moment she saw it was him, she relaxed—and then scowled.

“Roachfang,” she hissed. “You scared the vole off!” “You’re not supposed to be out here!” he snapped, stalking toward her. “You could’ve gone into labor! You will, if you keep doing this!” “I’m not made of thistle-down,” she growled back, fur puffing slightly. “I can handle catching one vole without the forest falling apart.”

“You shouldn’t be outside the camp at all!” His voice cracked, his frustration giving way to worry. “What if a badger found you? Or a fox? Or StarClan forbid—your kits come early and you’re alone out here?” “I’m not helpless.” “I never said you were. But you’re not just you right now. You're carrying our kits. You think I'd forgive myself if something happened to you—or them?”

She faltered at that, eyes softening slightly, though her whiskers still twitched with defiance. “I can’t sit still in that nest all day,” she muttered after a beat. “Every breath feels too loud in there. Everyone keeps hovering like I’m about to shatter. I just… I needed to feel normal for a little while.” Roachfang’s expression cracked then—anger melting into something quieter, deeper. He brushed his muzzle against hers with a sigh, pressing into her cheek fur.

“I get it,” he murmured. “But let me help you feel normal. Hunt near camp with me, let me carry what you catch. Don’t vanish on your own. Please.” She hesitated, then leaned into the touch, her purr barely audible above the breeze. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

A faint twinge passed through her belly, and she flinched. It was small—just a flutter—but he felt it. His ears perked, worry snapping back into place. “What was that?” “Nothing. Probably a kick.” But her eyes were wide, a little too bright. “We’re going back. Now.” She didn’t argue this time.

He kept pace beside her all the way to camp, pressing into her side like a silent shadow. His tail curled protectively around hers whenever they had to step around bramble or root. She leaned on him once, only for a breath, but he felt it. The weariness. The closeness. By the time they reached the nursery, her steps were slower, the faint pain in her belly pulsing more steadily. Roachfang helped her into the moss nest, tail flicking anxiously as she settled in.

“You’re going to drive me mad,” he murmured, crouching beside her and brushing moss close to her belly. He purred, deep and low, resting his head near her side.