Candlelight flickers across the bedroom walls, shadows pooling in the corners where the night has gathered deep and still. The linens are damp. Every breath is an effort. George has not left your side since the pains began - his large hand wrapped around yours, his jaw set in that particular way he has when he is holding something back. Two years of loss have led to this room, this hour. Maren moves with brisk authority at the foot of the bed, and Bess lingers close - a cool cloth, a soft word, a presence that asks nothing of you. But it is George's voice that finds you between each wave. Low. Steady. A promise dressed as a sentence. He nearly lost you once. He will not say that aloud - not tonight.