The cold tile pressed into his knees like a judgment he couldn't answer. Phuwin kept his face pressed to Clove's shoulder, breathing in the smell of her—soap and woodsmoke and something warm—and tried to remember how to be a person. His tears had gone quiet, but his body kept shaking in small aftershocks, the way the ground trembles after a storm has passed.

The water ran in the sink. Steady. Indifferent. It didn't care that he'd almost—that he'd put that pill on his tongue and nearly—

He couldn't finish the thought. His hand lay on his belly, palm flat against the swell of it, and beneath his fingers the baby shifted, a small insistent flutter like a fish turning in deep water. Alive. Still alive. Still there.

Clove's hand moved on his back, slow circles, patient as tide. "You're alright," she murmured, though they both knew it wasn't true. "You're here. You're alright."

Phuwin's throat worked. He tried to say something—anything—but the words came out as a raw scrape of sound, not quite a word, not quite a sob. His fingers curled against the fabric of her dress, gripping like a child who's forgotten how to let go.

The morning light slanted through the small window, catching motes of dust suspended in the air, and fell across the floor in a long golden stripe. It touched the edge of the bottle. The glass caught the light and threw it back in a small, cruel gleam.

Abortion.

The word sat on the label in plain black letters, unhurried, patient. It had been waiting for him all morning. It would wait longer.

Phuwin stared at it over Clove's shoulder, his breathing still too shallow, and felt the word settle into his chest like a stone dropped into still water. He'd bought it with coins that had felt like lead in his palm. He'd hidden it in his cloak like a secret he couldn't bear to speak. He'd stood in this very bathroom, water running, and put one of those pills on his tongue—

Clove's hand stilled on his back. "Phuwin."

He didn't answer. Couldn't. His eyes stayed fixed on the bottle, on the word, on the small white pills scattered across the tile like fallen snow. One of them lay near his knee, close enough to touch if he reached for it.

He didn't reach.

"Phuwin." Clove's voice was lower now, careful in a way that made his chest ache. "Look at me."

He couldn't. His eyes were full of that word, that bottle, that small white pill on the floor that had been in his mouth, that had dissolved against his tongue before she'd—

"Please."

The word cracked something in him. He lifted his head, slow, heavy, and met her eyes. Her face was close to his, her hands still framing his jaw, and she looked at him like he was something precious that might shatter if she blinked.

"There you are," she said softly, and her thumb brushed the damp track of tears from his cheekbone. "There you are."

He swallowed. His voice came out raw, scraped clean of everything but the truth. "I don't know what I'm doing."

"I know."

"I don't know—" His breath hitched. His hand pressed harder against his belly, and the baby kicked again, a small sharp jab against his palm like a protest. Like a heartbeat. Like a question. "I don't know anything anymore."

Clove's hands stayed on his face, steady, warm. "You don't have to know everything right now. You just have to breathe."

He tried. The breath came in shaky, uneven, catching somewhere in his chest. The water ran on. The light moved across the floor. The baby turned inside him, settling against his palm like it was listening.

"I held her," Phuwin said, and his voice broke on the words. "I held Ovoale. I held her body and she was so still, Clove. She's always been so—she's always moving, always talking, always there —and she was just lying there with her blood on my hands and I couldn't—"

His throat closed. Clove pulled him in, and he went, his forehead dropping to her shoulder, his body folding into hers like a thing too tired to stand.

"I know," she said into his hair. "I know."

"And Star—" His voice was muffled now, pressed into the fabric of her dress. "She was the first person who ever—she was the only one who—" He couldn't finish. The words tangled in his throat, too many of them, all of them sharp-edged and bleeding.

Clove held him tighter. "I know, love. I know."

He cried again, quieter this time, the tears leaking out of him like water from a cracked vessel. Not the storm of before, but something deeper, something that had been pooling in him for weeks and had finally found a crack to seep through.

The water ran on. The baby kicked, once, soft. His hand stayed on his belly, fingers spread wide, holding on.

"I don't know how to do this," he whispered. "I don't know how to be a mother to children who are—to a daughter who might—" His voice broke again. "I don't know how to carry this baby when I can't even—"

"You don't have to know." Clove's voice was firm now, cutting through the spiral of his words. "You don't have to have all the answers today. You just have to stay here, with me, and breathe. One breath at a time."

He shook against her. "That's not—that's not enough."

"It's all there is."

The words landed somewhere in his chest, heavy and true. He didn't have an answer for them. He didn't have an answer for anything.

His hand pressed against his belly, and the baby moved again, a slow roll of movement, a small body turning in the dark. He felt it against his palm and something in him cracked open, just a little, just enough to let a thin sliver of light in.

The sliver of light didn't last. It never did. The baby settled, and the quiet rushed back in, and Phuwin felt the weight of the morning settle over him again—the cold tile, the damp shoulder of Clove's dress, the bottle still gleaming on the floor. He pulled back from her, just enough to breathe, and his hands found his belly again, cradling it like something he might still lose.

Clove let him go slowly, her hands lingering on his arms before she sat back on her heels. The water ran on. Neither of them moved to stop it.

"I should—" Phuwin started, and stopped. He didn't know what he should do. He didn't know what he could do. The words sat in his throat, useless.

Clove watched him. Her eyes moved from his face to the floor, to the scattered pills, to the bottle with its plain black letters. She didn't reach for any of it. She just looked, and then she looked back at him, and something in her face shifted—not judgment, not pity, but something older and harder.

"Phuwin." Her voice was low, careful. "I need to ask you something."

He braced. He didn't know what was coming, but his body tensed anyway, his shoulders drawing in, his hands tightening on the swell of his belly.

"Is this baby what you want," she said slowly, "or what you're afraid of?"

The question landed like a blow. Phuwin's breath caught, and for a moment he couldn't find words at all. The water ran on. The light moved across the floor, touching the edge of the bottle, the word on its label, the small white pills scattered like seeds that had never been planted.

"I don't—" He stopped. His voice cracked. "I don't know the difference anymore."

Clove didn't look away. "I think you do."

He shook his head, a small helpless motion. "I wanted this baby. I wanted—" His hand pressed against his belly, and the baby kicked, a small sharp movement against his palm. "I wanted to give Pond a son. I wanted to give the kingdom an heir. I wanted to be enough."

"Enough for who?"

The question sliced through him. He opened his mouth, and nothing came out. His eyes drifted to the bottle again, to the word that had been waiting for him all morning, patient as a stone.

"For everyone," he whispered. "For him. For the kingdom. For—" His voice broke. "For my daughters. For the ones who are gone and the ones who are still here and the ones I don't know if I can—"

He stopped. The baby turned inside him, a slow roll of movement, and he felt it against his palm, small and alive and utterly dependent on him.

"I don't know what I want," he said, and the words came out raw, scraped clean. "I don't know if I want this baby or if I'm just—if I'm just carrying it because I don't know how to stop. Because I don't know who I am without it. Because every time I think about—"

His throat closed. The water ran on. The light moved across the floor, inch by inch, patient as anything.

Clove waited. She didn't fill the silence. She just sat on her heels on the cold tile, her hands loose in her lap, her eyes steady on his face, and waited.

"Every time I think about holding this baby," Phuwin said, and his voice was barely a thread, "I see Ovoale. I see her lying in the corridor with her blood on my hands. I see Star. I see Xiana's broken ankle, and I hear her screaming, and I think—" He swallowed. "I think, how can I bring another child into a world where I can't keep the ones I already have safe?"

The words hung in the air between them. The water ran on. The baby was still inside him, a small warm weight, and he hated it and loved it and couldn't tell the difference anymore.

"And every time I think about letting it go," he said, quieter still, "I feel it move. I feel it turn. I feel it kick against my hand, and I think—" His voice broke. "I think, this is the only thing that's still mine. The only thing that hasn't been taken from me. The only thing that doesn't know what happened."

Clove's face shifted. Something in it softened, cracked, reformed. She reached out and took his hand—the one pressed against his belly—and held it, warm and calloused and steady.

"Oh, love," she said softly. "You're not carrying it because you're afraid. You're carrying it because you're still hoping."

Phuwin stared at her. His eyes were wet again, the tears spilling over before he could stop them, and he shook his head, a small desperate motion.

"Hoping for what?"

"For a world where you don't have to choose."

The words landed somewhere in his chest, heavy and true, and he had no answer for them. The water ran on. The light moved across the floor. The baby turned inside him, a small insistent flutter, and his hand stayed on his belly, holding on.

Clove's hand was still wrapped around his. She didn't let go. "You don't have to decide anything today," she said. "You don't have to decide anything right now. But I need you to hear me, Phuwin. I need you to hear me when I say that whatever you choose—"

She squeezed his hand, and her voice dropped, fierce and quiet.

"—I will be here. I will help you. I will hold you up when you can't stand. But I will not let you make this choice out of fear. Not while I'm standing."

Phuwin's breath shook out of him. He looked at her, at the hard set of her jaw, at the fierce light in her eyes, and something in him cracked open again—wider this time, deeper, enough to let more than a sliver in.

"I don't know how to thank you," he whispered.

"You don't have to." Clove's voice was rough. "You just have to stay here, with me, and breathe. One breath at a time."

He tried. The breath came in shaky, uneven, but it came. The water ran on. The baby was still inside him, a small warm weight, and for a moment—just a moment—he didn't hate it.

And then the contraction seized him.

It came out of nowhere, a band of iron tightening around his belly, and Phuwin gasped, his hand flying to his round stomach, his whole body curling forward. The breath left him in a sharp cry, and Clove's grip on his hand tightened, her other hand bracing his shoulder.

"Phuwin." Her voice was sharp now, alert. "Phuwin, look at me. Breathe."

He tried. The contraction rolled through him, deep and relentless, and he felt his body bear down against it, felt the baby press against the cage of his ribs, and for a moment he couldn't breathe at all.

Then it eased. The iron band loosened, released, and he sagged forward, gasping, his forehead dropping to Clove's shoulder, his hand still pressed to his belly.

"That's it," Clove said, her voice steady. "That's it. You're alright. You're here."

Phuwin shook against her. His breath came in ragged gasps, and he could feel the sweat on his brow, the cold tile against his knees, the damp patch on Clove's dress where his tears had soaked through.

He didn't lift his head. He couldn't. His eyes were closed, and behind them he could still see the bottle on the floor, the word on its label, the small white pills scattered like fallen snow.

But his hand stayed on his belly. His hand stayed on the baby.

The water ran on. The light moved across the floor. And somewhere in the deep of his body, the next contraction was already gathering, patient as anything.