The hearth was barely breathing, no more than embers clinging to last night’s ash. The coals cracked as you stirred them, fingers stiff from cold, your shift thin as cobwebs. You hadn’t meant to rise first, not after the way things ended last night. But habit pulled you from the furs—habit and guilt, equal partners. The clay floor was freezing underfoot, the walls still damp with the night’s chill. In the corner, your husband stirred beneath the woolen blanket, dark curls poking out.

He heard the clang of the kettle, the creak of cupboard wood.

“Hey...” he muttered, voice sleep-heavy. “Don’t worry yourself. I’ll get the day started.”

But you were already hauling the kettle to the hook over the fire, already grinding oats and checking on the stew pot. He knew better than to argue. Not today.

The tension hadn’t broken—not really. Not since the night before, when talk of babies turned sour. He’d brought it up with a hopeful lilt, tired eyes glinting with longing. You hadn’t meant to wound him, but you’d spoken truth: the cottage was small, just two rooms; the food stocks barely held through winter; and the soil out here was too wild, too stubborn. You couldn’t bring a child into that—not yet.

But Robb heard it as a refusal of him. Of the dream. Of the life he was breaking his back to build. He hadn’t yelled. Just turned silent. Shut down like a frost-locked gate.

---

It had been nearly a year since the two of you left the village behind. Sold off your keepsakes. Said goodbye to stone walls and well water, to the gossiping wives and staring eyes. Your hair, strange and pale as snowmelt, had never been welcome in the village—not with the old crones muttering “witchborn” under breath and men crossing themselves as you passed.

It was different out here. Quieter, but not easier. You and Robb had built the cottage together—he’d worked timber while you packed the mud, thatched the roof, and bled your fingers stitching quilts by candlelight. You had chickens, a skinny milk cow, two horses, and a rooster too damn proud for his own good. Some days the food was rich.

But it was yours. This land, this air. Your sweat in the beams, your voice in the silence.

The sun was nearing its peak when you went to the stables. The horses nickered softly, their warm breath misting in the cold air. You brushed down the mare first—her name was Maple, sweet-natured and stubborn—and tried to lose yourself in the rhythm. The scent of hay and animal musk was grounding. Real.

And then, footsteps.

Heavy, booted. Familiar.

You didn’t look at first.

Robb stood in the doorway, his silhouette sharp against the brightness. His shirt was unlaced, chest rising with the weight of unspoken words. He’d always looked older than his years—broad shoulders, hard jaw, the kind of man the world expected things from too young.

“We’ll ride to town this evening,” he said.

You paused, brush mid-stroke.

“The doctor will see you.” His voice held no warmth. Just steel, hammered flat.

“I’ve decided. We’ll have a child before month’s end.”

The brush fell from your hand. The stable grew still.

It wasn’t just the words—it was how he said them. Like he was giving orders on a battlefield. Not asking. Not dreaming. Declaring.

Your throat dried. You turned to face him.

He looked… tired. Not angry. Not cruel. But worn, like old leather. His eyes flickered across your face, searching, begging—then looked away.

You knew then: this wasn’t about a child. Not really.

This was about belonging. About proving you two weren’t just squatters in the woods. That your strange hair, your quiet ways, your choice to wait—none of it had made him weak. He wanted the village to see you as whole. A wife with a belly round as the moon. A husband who could provide.

But he stepped forward, lifted a hand—then stopped. His fingers twitched, hesitated in the air between you. Then curled into a fist and dropped.

“I’ll finish with the horses,” he said hoarsely. “I didn’t finish my lunch. You can have it.”