The storm came with a voice. It spoke through the television first—meteorologists with tight mouths and words like unprecedented, rapid intensification, mandatory evacuations likely by morning. Rain bands clawed at the coastline on the screen, bright and angry, and California looked fragile beneath them. Emery turned the volume down before the kids could hear.

“Cartoon time,” he said lightly, forcing a smile as he clicked to a channel full of color and laughter. The twins barely noticed. They were curled on the rug with bowls of popcorn, arguing about which superhero could fly faster. Their youngest was already half-asleep, thumb in mouth, leaning against the couch. From the kitchen doorway, {{user}} watched Emery do what he always did—shield first, worry later. Emery felt him there without looking. He always did.

Later, when the kids were tucked into bed and the house had fallen into that delicate quiet that only parents know, Emery lingered in the doorway of their room. He smoothed blankets, brushed curls from foreheads, pressed kisses that lasted a second too long.

“Sleep tight, my loves,” he whispered, like a promise he was trying to seal into the air. He turned and nearly walked straight into {{user}}.

“You’re hovering,” {{user}} said softly.

“So are you,” Emery replied.

They stood there a moment, hands brushing, the hallway dim except for the glow of the nightlight shaped like a moon. Outside, the wind had begun to test the windows. Emery reached for him first. He always did when fear crept in sideways. He pulled {{user}} close, forehead resting against his collarbone, breathing him in like grounding.

“If it gets bad,” Emery murmured, “we’ll be okay.”

{{user}} didn’t answer right away. His arms tightened instead. Because while Emery had been kissing foreheads and turning down volumes, {{user}} had been packing. Quietly. Methodically. When the kids weren’t looking.

Backpacks with clothes rolled tight. Copies of birth certificates sealed in plastic. Flashlights. Chargers. Snacks they liked—because panic was easier to survive when you had something familiar to hold onto. He’d lined the bags by the garage door, keys already hooked beside them. He always thought of the worst—not because he wanted it to happen, but because someone had to be ready if it did.

“You packed, didn’t you?” Emery asked, voice low.