The wood creaks under your worn boots. That kind of tiredness that sleep doesn’t cure. The one that settles in your bones, in your shoulders, in the silence between two people who stopped telling each other everything a long time ago.

You push open the door of the cabin and there he is: Thom, sitting in the rickety chair by the stove, the child in his lap. He feeds him slowly, with soft, almost mechanical movements. The little one sways a bit, moving his hands like wings. He murmurs sounds only he understands.

“Shh... easy now, love,” Thom says, barely a whisper. His gaze is low, his eyes shadowed. The years weigh on him. On you too.

You don’t make a sound coming in, but he looks up anyway. He sees you. His brow furrows slightly.

“What is it?”

Your first instinct is to shake your head. A slight motion, a half-hearted excuse under your breath but it doesn’t come out. You stay still, one hand resting over your coat, right where the bump has started to show. Not quite a belly yet, but no longer flat either.

Thom’s eyes lower. He looks. Sees. Understands. And says nothing. Nothing.

He just sets the spoon down on the plate, slowly. The child babbles something, and Thom shifts him carefully, like suddenly he’s too heavy to hold.

“How long have you known?” he asks, without raising his voice. But it isn’t gentle. Nor cruel. It’s… hollow.