She didn’t say it like a request. She said it like a door had already been opened—one neither of them could ignore.

“We… we’re going to be the parents,” she insisted.

A rush of disbelief hit him first. The words landed, but his mind refused to catch up, as if part of him still expected the world to snap back to what it used to be. Then—like the universe was determined to make it real—he felt it: the weight of what was coming. Not just the baby. The consequences. The responsibility. The way life had a habit of rearranging everything when it decided you weren’t prepared.

“Yeah,” he managed, forcing a shaky exhale. “You feeling ready?”

Her answer wasn’t confidence. It was honesty—raw, trembling honesty.

“Honestly… it feels kind of surreal.” She stared ahead like the future was visible if she looked hard enough. “We’re having a baby. We’re having a baby.”

And hearing it twice made it worse, not better. Because saying it twice turned it from a possibility into a promise. Into a countdown. Into something that couldn’t be undone.

He watched her, and the concern in his eyes wasn’t performative. It was personal. The kind of worry that doesn’t come from duty alone. “You look like you could use a friend,” he said quietly.

“I could, actually,” she admitted, and the admission carried all the cracks in her composure.

Then he hesitated—like the next part mattered enough to choose his words carefully. “Some of you have lost faith in me,” he said, and for a moment the room felt colder, thinner around the edges. “But being your doctor—being the one who’s in your corner—that part is personal to me.”

He wasn’t just trying to reassure her. He was declaring something. A vow.

“Knowing there’s someone you can trust… they’ll stand by you,” he continued. “That’s what matters.”

But hope—real hope—didn’t come easily. Not for them.

“This is the end of one chapter,” he said, as if naming it could make it survivable. “And the beginning of another.”

“Yes,” she whispered, but her voice didn’t sound convinced. It sounded like she was bracing for impact.

The tension in the air shifted—pulled toward a different kind of danger. Not danger from outside. Danger from within the people who were supposed to keep each other safe.

“What’s going on with you and Preach?” he asked.

She didn’t even blink. “I love him,” she said instantly, like the truth was already burning in her chest. But love didn’t erase doubt. Love didn’t solve everything. Love didn’t automatically mean safety.

Then she added, almost to herself: “I’m wondering if it’s enough to keep me there.”

“Keep you where?” the question hung between them.

He didn’t answer with comfort. He answered with scrutiny, with that careful tone people use when they can’t afford to be wrong.

“So you want me to trust this?” his eyes said, though his mouth didn’t quite phrase it that way. “It’s not your motives I’m worried about.” He paused. “We’re going to need a little time.”

A little time.

As if time could be negotiated. As if the future would wait politely at the door.

“What are we supposed to do?” she demanded, the frustration breaking through the fear. “We’re just supposed to sit here and wait?”

“Wait for what?” he pressed.

“For something to be certain,” she implied. But certainty wasn’t something any of them could control.

Because deep down, neither of them could pretend this was simple.

“It’s not our baby,” she said, and the sentence sounded like both a confession and a defense. “Not yet.”

Not yet—like the universe was taking its time deciding whether it would be kind.

And then came the real twist: the truth about why people had even come to this place.

“People moved here because they wanted something more,” she explained, like she’d been thinking about it for days. “Something real.”

Not just survival. Not just existence. Something that felt like it belonged to them. Something that made the risk worth it.

But wanting something real didn’t mean you could control how it arrived.

The conversation shifted again—toward the private panic underneath everything she said.

“Are you okay?” he asked, gentler now.

“I’m fine,” she insisted.

But “fine” sounded rehearsed, like a shield she’d learned to throw up whenever the truth got too close.

“Promise,” she added, desperate for him to accept it.

He didn’t challenge her. He just listened