Deep in the cold night, the muffled hiss of snow blends into the winter silence, a whispering flutter marking the turn of another page beneath Neva's fingers.
Her lips part, an airy yawn leaving her as she marks a verse in the worn Scripture.
Warmth pools beneath the duvet as she draws her knees close,
the scratch of ink gliding across the waiting page of her notebook.
A gust of air feathers the room as the door creaks open, closes with a faint thud, and careful footsteps pad across the floor.
"You're still awake?" Rhett's voice glides along the wooden walls of the ancient cottage—a temporary haven made livable through hurried hands and borrowed time.
"Mm-hmm," Neva replies, though her gaze remains tethered to the notebook, aware of the mattress creaking as the space beside her dips under his weight.
For a long moment, the quiet lingers, marked by the steady rhythm of her heart, the gentle rise and fall of their son's breathing—
before Rhett murmurs, low and almost lost to the room, "He must've felt alone… afraid."
She gazes at him through her lashes.
There is a languid ease in the way his head rests on his palm. But his eyes—soft, shadowed—remain fixed on Rhean, asleep between them, cocooned beneath the covers and lost to sound dreams.
He meets her gaze, lantern-light warming the handsome planes of his face.
A smile tugs at his lips, feathering a balm over her sore heart.
She reaches over, gathering the folds of the covers to ease them over him. "It's freezing."
His hand intertwines with hers, her heart stuttering at his playful, fevered smile.
"Help warm me." He presses soft, lingering kisses to her fingers.
She draws her hand back too quickly, warmth blooming across her cheeks.
"I still have work," she murmurs quietly.
"Tch." Feigned defeat colours his tone as he lets his head fall back onto the pillow.
He folds an arm behind his head and turns toward her. "It's nearly three, Angel," he murmurs. "Staying awake this late won't do you any good—especially now."
"I'll be done soon." Her eyes barely leave the page as her fingers turn it and continue their careful scrawl.
A deep sigh leaves him.
"Our boy takes after you in stubbornness," he says fondly, brushing a finger over their son's tiny nose, a gentle boop following. "I'm worried this one won't be any different."
A small frown pulls at her brow.
"Don't you start blaming me, as if you're any easier."
He arches a brow. "Have you ever actually let your husband win an argument?"
She presses her lips together—she cannot truly think of a time she'd let him win.
"None at all?" A teasing grin tugs at his lips.
She parts her lips to counter back, only to lift a hand as a yawn escapes, her eyelids growing heavier with the weight of sleep.
"Your body's betraying you." The mattress sighs beneath him as he stirs. "You won't get anything done without proper rest, Angel."
Dazed, she gasps, the Scripture and notebook vanishing from her grasp in one swift motion.
"Give them back—" she swipes at the air as he hoists them high,
a mischievous glint flickering beneath his own heavy-lidded eyes.
"I said give them back," she hisses, her voice sharp yet hushed, sensing their son shifting in his sleep between them.
"You'll wake Rhean up." He gives a daring shrug.
"How hard can it be to admit you're tired?"
"I'm not nearly that tired!" she insists, cheeks flushing in frustration.
He leans back as she reaches again, holding the books just out of her grasp.
"I saw you nodding off at dinner."
She collapses onto the mattress,
a heavy sigh spilling from her lips. "It's the pregnancy!"
"All the more reason not to push yourself too hard," he says, warmth in his gaze.
"Rest when you need to, Angel."
Exhaustion drapes over her shoulders as her gaze lingers on the messy covers in her lap. "We don't have time, Rhett."
"Of course we do," he coos, carefully laying the Scripture and notebook on the nightstand before moving closer to her.
She scoots back, resting her head back against the cold wood with a quiet sigh.
"We only have until spring—
and there are still over fifty thousands believers waiting to be gathered."
"Maybe the angel was wrong." He leans in beside her, his hand settling on her thigh in a comforting squeeze.
"Maybe he meant twenty instead of seventy—you know, just a slip of tongue?"
She chuckles softly.
He grins lazily, but it falters as her lips quiver, warm tears sliding down her cheeks.
"Oh no, Angel." His warm fingers brush her cheeks. "Come here," he whispers, folding her into his arms in a protective embrace.
"Shh…" He presses his lips to her head while she whimpers against his chest.
"We—we still—" she chokes out, her fists clutching his shirt.
"I—I don't know h—how—" Her sobs spill over, her heart trapped on a road of unrelenting darkness, no flicker of light cutting through the haze within her.
"Hush…" he whispers, pressing her closer against him. "He will make a way—"
"He did," she cuts in, voice breaking. "It's just… I—I'm too stupid to see it!"
"No," he says. "You're not. You're my smart, my beautiful wife..." he sighs softly. "With a heart of gold and a courage of lioness."
She tilts her chin to his chest, eyes finding his through the haze of tears.
Those warm, dreamy pools a heaven in itself, her home, the mirror of his soul.
He leans in slowly, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips. "I'm sorry." His words brushes her lips. "I know you miss the twins." He kisses her again, slow and deliberate.
"I promise, I'll bring them back."
"No," she murmurs. "They're safer with him."
His voice lowers. "You don't trust me to protect them?"
"Of course I do," she retorts, heart breaking.
He eases back, his worried eyes searching hers. "Is it because I kept the truth from you? That toy was harmless. And I've made sure Knight won't risk anything like that again."
"It's not that," she swallows, turning away.
"They have to be with him. I believe they're the ones who could open his eyes."
He frowns.
"You know he's being hunted. And it won't stop until he's captured—or dead."
"You can't catch him," she swallows against the tightness in her throat.
"You can't—" Her hand presses to her chest. "He cannot be caught."
"Why?" he asks, calm, but grim-eyed.
"I just know it!" she snaps, unintentionally harsh.
He inhales, fingers brushing strands of hair from her face. "What if we take a break tomorrow?"
"We can't," she murmurs, pressing her head against his strong, protective chest.
"The Word hasn't spread enough.
I failed to plant the faith. I failed the people," she chokes out. "I failed Him."
"You're wrong." He presses a kiss to her hair, letting his chin settle on her head. "He understands—you need rest. Everything will be alright."
Sniffling, she lifts her gaze, voice small. "Is it really okay?"
He chuckles lightly, warmth in his voice. "Of course, Angel."
Clutching his collar, she tilts her chin and kisses him deeply.
"I love you," she whispers.
"I love you more," he replies softly.
He eases her onto the pillows, lips meeting hers with a smile, as her practiced, nimble fingers begin unfastening his shirt.
"My Angel, go easy." He teases her lips with a gentle nip,
groaning softly as her hand swats his chest.
"Mama..." They both freeze, motionless like snowmen outside the broken window, cracks held together with heavy tape.
"Dada took my crayons…"
A long, quiet sigh of relief drifts from them as their son murmurs in his sleep, rolling over, gentle snores filling the stillness.
Neva and Rhett exchange a soft, breathy laugh—a heaven between four beating hearts,
in the warmth of the cottage that shields them from the winter outside, savoring one of the answered prayers in a world paused against the thrash of nightmares.
He leans his forehead to hers, a thumb stroking her cheek. "I can't believe I get to have another of him."
Breathing in his closeness, she smiles, and lays his hand over her belly. "Me too."