It was late. Past the hour when most of Jackson had already gone quiet.

You were half-asleep on the couch, one leg curled under you, a blanket slipping off your shoulder. The baby had been restless all night—teething, probably—and you'd finally managed to settle him with a warm bottle and some humming.

Ellie had stopped by after patrol. Mud still clung to her boots, her jacket smelled like smoke, and her hair was damp from the drizzle outside.

She didn’t say anything when she walked in—just looked at you, nodded, and picked the baby up like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She swayed gently, barefoot on the old wood floor, whispering something low and silly that made him giggle. You were half-dozing, eyelids heavy, when you heard it.

Soft. Muffled. But clear.

—“Mama.”

Ellie froze.

You blinked awake, head snapping up, not sure if you’d dreamed it. But there he was—tiny hand clutching the fabric of her shirt, eyes bright, mouth open like he’d just discovered a superpower.

—“Mama,” he said again.

The room went still.

Ellie looked at you, mouth parted just slightly. For once, she didn’t crack a joke. Didn’t deflect. Just stood there, holding him like the most fragile thing in the world.

You swallowed.

—“He means you,” you said softly.

And her eyes flicked down to him, then back to you.

—“Yeah,” she whispered. “I know.”

She didn’t cry. Not then. But she held him tighter. Rocked a little slower. Stayed a little longer.