This man—who built our entire survival around routine and responsibility, who carries everything heavier than he ever admits out loud—is kneeling in the sand with his ear pressed against me, listening for something he can’t possibly hear yet.
“Hello in there,” he says. “I’m your dad.”
Something tightens painfully in my chest, halfway between a laugh and tears.
He lifts his head again and looks at me. “That felt ridiculous.”
“It wasn’t. It was perfect.”
He studies my face for another second, and I watch the shift happen in him. I recognize it immediately. The exact moment something uncertain becomes something he’s decided to handle. His mind locking onto the next steps. The practical reality of it.
But this feels different from the other times I’ve seen it.
Softer somehow.
There’s tenderness inside it now alongside the determination. Something new layered into the instinct to protect.
“You’re done with heavy work.”
Not a suggestion.
“Dane—”
“Water. Firewood. Fishing. Food prep.” He starts listing things automatically like he’s reorganizing our entire life. “I’ll do it.”
“Those are my chores.”
“I know.” No hesitation. “Your job now is growing the baby.”
After a second, his eyes drift back to my stomach again, attention settling there like his entire sense of priority has already rearranged itself around this one new fact.
“I mean it, Charlotte. No more heavy lifting.”
There’s absolutely no room to argue in his tone.
Usually, I would. I’d point out that I’ve survived this island alongside him for years. That being pregnant doesn’t suddenly make me fragile or helpless. That sometimes his need to protect turns into control before he even realizes it’s happening.
I know exactly what I’d normally say.
But this time, I don’t say any of it.
Because I want this.
“All right.”
Something shifts briefly across his face—surprise maybe, or the quick recalibration of someone already braced for an argument that never comes.
I think he realizes almost immediately that I’m not agreeing just to keep the peace. I’m choosing not to fight him on this.
I’m still bleeding. Not constantly. Not heavily. But enough that I notice it. Enough that it’s impossible not to think about.
And I don’t know what it means. But I know my own body. And I know when something feels off.
I don’t say any of that to him.
His hand settles against my stomach.
“How do you feel?”
