The sea was quiet.

Too quiet.

Emmett stood by the treeline, watching the tide shift across the rocks below. The horizon was a hazy line of gold. Morning always came like a mercy here — slow, kind. Not like the mainland, where dawn meant another day of surviving.

He turned the ring in his fingers again — a piece of copper wire he’d twisted into a circle. Wasn’t real. Wasn’t meant to be. But he kept it anyway.

Behind him, the house creaked. Not a real house — a patched-up barn with driftwood walls and hand-knit quilts. You were asleep inside, curled on your side, one hand over your stomach like you were guarding something sacred.

No.

Someone.

He swallowed.

It still didn’t feel real.

You weren’t supposed to be here. Weren’t supposed to stay. He’d taken you in because he couldn’t watch another kid die — couldn’t lose someone else.

But then you smiled at him one morning while brushing dust off his sleeve. And then you started setting the kettle on before he came back from fishing. And then… this.

You trusted him with everything. Even when he didn’t say a damn word to deserve it.

And now you were carrying a child.

His child.

He let out a slow breath, sinking onto the steps, elbow on his knee, palm dragging down his face.

He should’ve felt happy. Or grateful. Or something softer.

But all he felt was afraid.

Not because of the baby. Not even because of what it meant.

But because this world — even this island — was still broken. Still full of monsters. And he had nothing to give you but his two hands and a promise that he wouldn’t run.

He looked down at the ring again.

He didn’t deserve you. Not after what he’d lost. Not after the things he’d done to survive.

But you’d chosen to stay.

That meant something.

He stood, dusted off his jeans, and headed back inside.

You were still asleep, tangled in the quilt. Your face softer now, calmer. The small bump rising under your hand.

Emmett knelt beside you and reached out, almost afraid to touch — but he did. Just the back of his fingers against your arm.

Warm.

Alive.

Family.

“…Guess I better figure out how to build a cradle,” he muttered.