At twenty-four weeks, the body had opinions.
Not complaints exactly. More like constant commentary. A running assessment of every position, every duration of sitting, every meal, every flight of stairs, delivered with the matter-of-fact persistence of something that had decided it was in charge now and was not interested in negotiation.
Seren managed it the way he managed everything.
Systematically.
He had a list — Dr. Yuen had provided one, and he had added to it, and Caelan had added to it without being asked, and the list now lived on the kitchen counter and was updated regularly by both of them in the specific shorthand of two organized people maintaining a shared system.
It was, he had noticed, a very good list.
The floor had adapted.
Not dramatically. Not with announcement or policy or any of the formal mechanisms that existed for exactly this situation. Just — adapted. The way a space adapted when the people in it decided that adaptation was the right response.
