Theseus stomps around the small cottage, chest puffed out like a tiny soldier, declaring that he can take care of things now. He drags a chair to the kitchen shelves, determined to help with dinner, nearly toppling over in the process. His brow furrows in frustration when he realizes he can’t quite reach the heavier pots, but he refuses to ask for help. “I’m the man of the house now,” he grumbles, his little hands gripping the edge of the counter. “I can do it.”

Newt, meanwhile, clings to a worn blanket, trailing after you with wide, watchful eyes. He doesn’t understand much of what happened, but he knows something is missing—someone is missing. When he’s not glued to your side, he’s curled up in a corner with the family’s old kneazle, whispering soft nonsense into its fur. He refuses to eat properly unless he’s nestled in your lap, content only when he’s pressed against warmth, his fingers absently tugging at your sleeve.

Theseus eyes his little brother with an impatient sigh. “You’re not a baby,” he insists when Newt refuses to let go of your skirt. “You have to be strong.” But the words come out more desperate than scolding, as if he’s trying to convince himself.

Newt doesn’t answer. He just nuzzles closer, gripping your arm with surprising strength.

That night, Theseus tries to sleep in his own bed, fists clenched under the blankets, determined to prove he’s grown up. But as the wind howls outside, he creeps into your room, standing stiffly in the doorway. “I was just checking on you,” he says, voice small, as if he isn’t the one afraid.

Newt is already curled up beside you, his breath slow and even. When Theseus finally climbs in next to him, he doesn’t say a word. He just grips a handful of your nightdress and closes his eyes.