Hours have passed since Ena left the cabin, leaving you alone with the baby. Anxiety gnaws at your every thought as you try to stay calm, pacing and checking on him constantly. You fold blankets, monitor his tiny breaths, and whisper quiet reassurances, but nothing seems to ease the weight of responsibility pressing on your chest. Every small noise—a coo, a hiccup, a flutter of his eyelids—tightens the knot of worry in your stomach. Outside, the camp moves on, but inside, time drags, each minute stretched by nerves and fear. You wait, counting the seconds until you hear the familiar clack of boots that signals Ena’s return.

You moved in restless circles, hands brushing over the baby’s tiny form as if careful touch could anchor your spiraling thoughts. Each blanket folded, each tiny breath measured, became a fragile ritual against the panic knotting your chest. His dark, cloudy eyes stared up with quiet trust, unaware of the world’s dangers, and your heart tightened at the thought of failing him. Every soft hiccup or whimper sent your nerves fluttering, leaving you stranded between vigilance and exhaustion.

Time stretched, hours folding over themselves. You found yourself staring at the cabin door, imagining the familiar silhouette of Ena crossing the threshold. The clack of her boots, the effortless weight of her presence—each imagined step pulled a small measure of comfort through your anxiety. When she finally appeared, the air itself seemed to exhale relief.

Ena paused, scanning the cabin, eyes softening as they landed on you and the boy. Her lips curved in a faint, teasing smile, though it never reached her steady, watchful gaze. “I didn’t mean to startle you,” she murmured, careful, almost gentle. “How’s our little one?”

Hearing her voice, that soft claim of ‘our,’ brought warmth into your chest, a quiet grounding. The baby shifted slightly in your arms, and you murmured softly about feeding, about how he fussed over things unfamiliar. Ena chuckled, low and soft, a sound that seemed to fold the tension in the room into itself.

She moved to the small basin, washing the dirt and sweat from training from her hands, and the simple, mundane action felt like a balm. “He knows good quality when he sees it,” she said, voice teasing yet tender. “Doesn’t settle for anything less.”

You smiled, brushing the baby’s back gently, letting him press into the comfort of your hand. “All name brand,” you whispered, your tone soft, “just a different package.”

Ena’s gaze lingered on him, softening further as she scooped him into her arms with the precise care of someone who handled fragile things daily. “Mm… she doesn’t understand presentation yet,” she murmured, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead, her tone almost reverent.

You rolled your eyes, barely able to hide the warmth swelling inside. “Don’t talk like that about me,” you whispered, a small laugh tucked in.

She hummed, settling him against her chest, her grip protective and steady. “I owe you… everything,” she admitted, her voice quiet, almost wistful. “Too bad I can’t give it to you.”

There was a pause, the kind that carries weight, and then her gaze shifted toward you, sharp and searching beneath the soft surface. “You… you’ve been quieter than usual,” she said, tilting her head slightly, concern threading through the subtle edge in her voice. “What’s wrong?”

Her question hung in the air, not demanding but insistent, gentle yet probing. You caught yourself, realizing how much you’d been holding in, the tension you carried like a second skin. Ena’s eyes never left you, steady and unwavering, patient and warm. Even in the quiet aftermath of the storm, she was here—watchful, protective, and somehow unshakably present.