Whispers in the Dark

with Ellie Navarro

Mara hadn’t slept in nearly three days.

In the beginning, it had all felt so surreal, the rush to the hospital, the blur of harsh fluorescent lights, the warm, living weight of Isaac against her chest for the first time, his tiny body slick with the raw, primal heat of new life. She had cried, her breath coming in shallow, trembling gasps, her heart swelling with a fierce, protective love that threatened to crack her ribs. Daniel had been right there beside her, his rough, calloused hand clutched around hers, his face damp with tears, his voice breaking as he whispered, “He’s perfect.”

And for the first few weeks, it had felt that way. Perfect.

Isaac had been a quiet baby, rarely crying, his tiny fists unclenched, his dark eyes wide and curious. He had latched easily, his warm, toothless mouth rooting against her skin, his small, downy head nestling against the curve of her shoulder. The days had passed in a haze of soft, shushing breaths and the warm, rhythmic swaying of the rocking chair in the corner of the nursery, the soft creak of the old wood mingling with the faint, breathy sighs of a sleeping infant.

Daniel had taken two weeks off work, his voice full of bright, nervous excitement as he called friends and family, his phone full of blurry, poorly lit photos of Isaac’s tiny, scrunched-up face. He had been a natural, his large, rough hands cradling the baby’s fragile head with surprising gentleness, his deep, rumbling voice humming old, half-remembered lullabies as he paced the dimly lit hallways in the quiet, early hours of the morning.

Mara had spent those early days drifting between the nursery and their bedroom, the soft, pastel walls of Isaac’s room still smelling faintly of fresh paint and baby powder, the air thick with the mingled scents of milk and talcum. She had read every book, every article, every parenting blog she could find in the months leading up to Isaac’s birth, her mind filled with a thousand tiny details about breastfeeding positions, swaddling techniques, and sleep schedules. She had downloaded apps to track his feedings, his diaper changes, his every tiny, twitching movement. She had prepared.

For a while, it had felt manageable. Exhausting, yes, but manageable. There had been long, sleepless nights, of course,  the slow, mind-numbing hours spent pacing the nursery, her bare feet whispering against the cool hardwood floor, the baby’s soft, murmured coos pressing against her collarbone. But there had also been quiet, stolen moments in the early morning light, Isaac’s small, warm body curled against her chest, his tiny, perfect fingers curling and uncurling against her skin, his breath soft and warm against her neck.

But then Daniel had returned to work, his absence leaving the house too quiet, the long, shadowed hours of the day stretching out before her like the slow, heavy pulse of a distant drumbeat. The days began to blur together, the bright, sunlit mornings giving way to the dim, cool hush of late afternoon, the walls of the nursery closing in around her as the shadows crept longer and darker across the floor.

She told herself it was just the exhaustion, the slow, creeping madness of sleepless nights and endless feedings, the disorienting, dreamlike quality of new motherhood. She had read about this, after all, the strange, half-waking state that came with the constant, unrelenting vigilance of caring for a newborn. The feeling of slipping just beneath the surface of reality, of floating in a warm, quiet darkness, the world around her reduced to the soft, rhythmic whisper of her own breathing, the slow, steady thud of her heart.

And for a time, that had been enough. Just tired, she would whisper to herself as she rocked Isaac back and forth in the old, creaking chair, her head nodding against the high, curved back, her eyes heavy and wet with exhaustion. Just tired.

Though, as the days continued, and the nights stretched, she began to notice the first, subtle cracks in the facade. The tiny, flickering moments when Isaac’s dark, unblinking eyes seemed to follow her a little too closely, his small, slightly parted lips forming a soft, soundless gasp, his head tilting to the side as if listening to something just beyond the walls of the nursery. But those thoughts were still distant, half-formed whispers at the edge of her mind, lost in the slow, warm fog of early motherhood, the strange, twisting dance of love and fear that came with holding a new life in her arms.

She noticed it one morning as she burped Isaac over her shoulder, his small, warm weight pressing into her collarbone, his tiny fingers grasping at the loose strands of her hair. His head snapped up suddenly, his body tensing, his dark eyes locked on the shadow of her reflection in the bedroom mirror.

Mara froze, her heart stuttering in her chest, her skin prickling with a sudden, irrational fear. She turned slowly, her breath catching as she met his wide, unblinking gaze in the mirror. His head tilted to the side, his small, perfect mouth slightly open, his pupils dark and full, his tiny, rounded shoulders stiff against her chest.

For a long, breathless moment, they stared at each other, their reflections blurred and warped by the faint, golden morning light streaming through the bedroom window. She felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up, a sharp, primal warning that made her skin crawl. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something else was looking back at her, something old and hungry, its small, perfect features twisted into a shape that only imitated a baby’s innocence.

Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, Isaac’s tiny lips curled into a soft, trembling smile, his fingers tightening around a loose strand of her hair, his small, warm breath brushing against her neck. The grip tightened, the fine strands winding around his fingers with a deliberate, almost spiteful twist, pulling sharply until she felt the sharp pinch against her scalp, the roots pulling painfully tight. She winced, her pulse spiking, a cold sweat prickling at her temples.

Mara shuddered, a cold, sharp dread curling in her stomach, her heart racing in her chest like a trapped bird. She forced herself to look away, to bury her face in the soft hair at the crown of his head, her mind reeling with exhaustion and an irrational fear. She tried to shake it off, to remind herself that he was just a baby, just her baby, but the feeling lingered, clinging to her like the damp chill of a basement after a rainstorm, seeping into her bones, settling deep.

“Just tired,” she whispered again, her voice trembling, her fingers tightening around the warm, living weight of her son. “Just… so tired.”

She tried to shake it off, to let the warmth of the sun cut through the fog clinging to her thoughts, but she couldn’t quite forget the way his eyes had looked in the mirror, the tiny, perfect curve of his lips curling into that soft, silent smile.

On a hot night later that week, Mara woke to the sound of creaking. Not the gentle settling of old wood or the groan of the house shifting in its foundations, but a deliberate, rhythmic sound, a slow, patient sway, like something large was shifting its weight back and forth.

She froze, her fingers tightening around the edge of the sheet. The baby monitor on the nightstand crackled, a burst of static breaking through the quiet, followed by a faint rustling. She reached for it, her hand trembling as she fumbled for the button, the small screen flickering to life. It cast a cold, blue glow across the room, cutting through the darkness.

The nursery came into focus, the grainy, black-and-white image flickering as the camera adjusted. Shadows stretched long across the walls, the mobile above the crib swaying gently, its tiny fabric stars spinning slowly, their stitched eyes fixed on the mattress below.

Isaac was sitting up.

Mara’s breath froze in her lungs, her pulse hammering in her ears. He was only two months old. His muscles were still too weak, his body too small, too fragile. But there he was, his head tilted at a sharp, unnatural angle, his tiny fists curled tightly against his sides, his dark, unblinking eyes locked onto the camera. His lips hung slightly open, the corners pulled back in a way that looked less like a baby’s gurgle and more like the beginning of a snarl.

The crib swayed gently from side to side, the wooden slats creaking, the springs groaning under his weight. The frame shuddered softly, the mattress dipping and rising, as if something far heavier than a newborn was shifting back and forth. The mobile above his head continued spinning.

She leaned in closer, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps, her fingers gripping the sides of the monitor so tightly the plastic creaked beneath her touch. She swore the shadows behind him stretched toward the crib, twisting and curling like the slow, purposeful movements of something ancient and patient, something that had waited too long and was just now stretching its limbs.

The camera crackled, the image blurring, the shadows flickering as the swaying continued, the creak of the crib growing louder, more insistent, the dark, hollow sound of wood bending and groaning under a weight that seemed impossible. The air in the room felt dense, thick, the shadows stretching longer, deeper, their edges sharp and jagged, like the serrated edge of a blade.

Isaac’s gaze never wavered. His pupils seemed too large, too dark, his tiny chest rising and falling in slow, each breath perfectly timed with the slow, rhythmic creak of the mattress beneath him. She swore she saw his tiny mouth twitch, the corners pulling back just a fraction, his small, pink tongue flicking out, tasting the air, his head tilting slightly to the side as if listening for her, his mother, somewhere just beyond the shadows.

The monitor slipped from her grasp, clattering against the edge of the nightstand, the screen flickering, the image dissolving into static as her pulse raced, her mind reeling with the sharp, jarring sense that something had tilted, that something in her world had twisted into a shape she couldn’t understand.

She stumbled out of bed, her pulse still hammering, the cold floor biting into the soles of her feet as she crossed the hallway. Her breath came in short, shallow bursts, the darkened walls stretching around her as she reached the nursery door, her fingers curling around the cold, brass knob. She hesitated, her mind racing, the silence on the other side of the door pressing against her like a held breath just waiting to be released.

She pushed the door open, the hinges creaking softly, the dim, gray light from the hallway spilling across the nursery floor, casting long, twisted shadows against the pastel walls. The air felt colder here, the darkness thicker, the faint, sickly-sweet smell of baby powder hanging in the air, cloying, suffocating.

Isaac lay perfectly still in his crib, his tiny fists curled beside his head, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths. The mobile above him hung still, the tiny, fabric stars frozen in place, their stitched eyes staring down into the quiet, undisturbed darkness.

The next morning, Mara stood at the sink, her fingers gripping the edge of the counter, her eyes unfocused as she stared out the window. The morning light filtered through the thin kitchen curtains, casting long, gray stripes across the floor. She reached for one of Isaac’s bottles, the rubber nipple still faintly damp, the clear plastic cool against her palm. She twisted the cap off, her mind drifting, her pulse still uneven from another night of broken sleep.

As she turned the nipple in her hand, her thumb brushed over something rough, a faint, jagged line along the rim. She frowned, leaning closer to the window, angling it toward the light. Tiny, precise tears ran along the edge, thin, sharp gouges like the bite marks of something too small, too sharp to have come from Isaac’s soft, toothless gums.

She ran her thumb over the indentations, feeling the torn rubber, the uneven edges pressing into her skin. It wasn’t the slow, harmless wear of a teething baby. It felt like something had clamped down and ground its way through, the pressure too focused, too forceful for a baby his age. She turned it slowly, the rubber catching on the pad of her thumb, the tiny, torn edges scraping against her skin.

Her gaze flicked over her shoulder, toward the living room. Isaac was where she had left him, propped up against a nest of pillows on the couch, his head tipped back, his dark eyes locked on her through the wide, open archway. She felt the hair on her arms stand up, a slow, prickling wave of unease creeping down her spine as his gaze tracked her every movement. His pupils seemed too large, too dark, the whites of his eyes swallowed up by the deep, unfathomable black, the faint glint of morning light catching on the edges, giving his eyes a glassy, predatory shine.

She hesitated, her fingers tightening around the chewed nipple, her pulse ticking up as she glanced toward the hallway closet just behind the sofa. She needed to grab a fresh pack of burp cloths, the ones she had washed and folded last night, but the idea of moving past him, of stepping into his line of sight, made her skin crawl.

She forced herself to move. ‘He’s just a baby’, she thought, ‘He’s my sweet little baby.’ Her bare feet whispering against the cool hardwood as she crossed the living room, her eyes flicking to Isaac as she passed. His head tipped back slightly, his gaze following her, his small frame pressing into the pillows, the soft fabric bunching around his sides as she stepped behind the couch, her body slipping from his view.

She hesitated, her hand hovering over the closet handle, her breath catching as she glanced back. He was still sitting perfectly still, his eyes fixed on the spot where she had disappeared, his head tilting ever so slightly to the side, his tiny ear cocked as if listening, as if waiting for her to move, to make a sound.

She felt the cold tighten around her, her pulse in her ears, her mind reeling as she turned back to the closet, her fingers trembling as she reached for the knob, the quiet, creaking hinge echoing in the stillness of the house.

The closet door swung open with a soft, sighing groan, the darkness inside deeper than it should have been, the shadows stretching against the back wall, the faint, musty smell of stale fabric and old wood seeping out to wrap around her like a cold, skeletal hand. Her skin prickled, the fine hairs on the back of her neck standing on end as she reached inside, her fingers brushing over the cool, folded fabric of the burp cloths. The air inside the closet felt colder, heavier, as if the darkness itself were leaning toward her, its breath against her wrist, thin and dry and waiting.

Something clattered softly against the back wall, a faint, rustling sound, like the scuttle of tiny claws against wood. She froze, her breath catching, her fingers tightening around the cloths as her pulse raced, her mind spinning with a sudden, irrational fear.

Slowly, she turned her head towards the sound, her eyes straining against the darkness, the sharp, angular shapes of the closet’s contents blurring together, the shadows flickering at the edges of her vision. She felt something brush against her fingers, a soft, dry whisper of movement, the faint scrape of something small and hard slipping over her skin, like tiny, curling fingers reaching up from the darkness to touch her, to test the warmth of her living flesh.

She yanked her hand back, the cloths tumbling from her grasp, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps as she stumbled back, the closet door creaking shut with a slow whisper, the latch clicking softly into place.

She stood there for a long, breathless moment, her pulse thundering in her ears, her skin slick with cold sweat. She let out a shaky, nervous laugh, pressing a trembling hand to her chest as she tried to slow her breathing. “God, I really need to catch up on sleep,” she whispered, her voice low and unsteady in the stillness of the house, the darkness around her feeling suddenly heavier, closer, like a cold, watching presence that had just leaned in to listen.

The days went on, each one a loop of sleepless nights and jittery, caffeine-soaked mornings. Daniel was at work while Mara felt like a ghost in her own home, drifting from room to room, her mind foggy, her nerves frayed, always waiting for the next cry, the next demand, the next creeping shiver that crawled up her spine whenever she stepped into the nursery.

It was the little things she tried to ignore. The flicker of shadows at the edge of her vision, the soft, skittering sound beneath her feet when she crossed the nursery, like something small and quick darting just out of reach. She told herself it was just her imagination, just the exhaustion playing tricks, the house settling, the wood creaking. But the feeling lingered, that quiet, skin-prickling sense that something was moving just beneath the surface, watching, waiting.

One night, as she rocked Isaac in the dark, her head drooping against the high back of the rocking chair, she started humming a lullaby. An old, half-remembered tune from her childhood, something her mother had sung to her when the nights felt too big, too full of shadows.

She closed her eyes, her body swaying gently, the chair creaking beneath her, the cool air whispering against her skin. Isaac pressed into her chest, his tiny fingers curled against her collarbone, his breath steady against her neck.

But as she hummed, she felt a faint vibration, a low, buzzing hum that seemed to rise from Isaac’s small frame, his tiny chest pressed against hers, his breath warming her skin. She froze, her eyes snapping open, her pulse ticking up as the vibration continued, a slow, rhythmic echo of her own voice, the broken, half-formed notes trembling up from his tiny throat.

For a long, breathless moment, she sat there, her mind struggling to process what she was hearing, the small, soft echo of her own voice humming back to her from Isaac’s tiny, trembling lips. The sound was off, twisted, each note fractured, warped, like a record warped by heat, the tone too low, too deep for a baby his size. It scraped against her nerves, sharp and cold, like the edge of a rusted blade.

She pulled back, her heart racing as she looked down into his face. His eyes were open, wide and unblinking like they always seemed to be, his lips moving in slow, deliberate twitches, his mouth forming the same broken, trembling sounds she had just been humming. His eyes flicked to hers, his pupils swallowing the weak light filtering in from the hall, his tiny mouth twitching, his small tongue flicking out, tasting the air as the tune continued to shiver up from his throat, the vibrations trembling against her chest, her bones.

She jerked back, the chair creaking loudly, the dark corners of the nursery seeming to pull in tighter, the air growing dense, heavy, pressing in around her. She stumbled to her feet, clutching Isaac to her chest, his small fingers curling into the loose fabric of her shirt, his head tipping back, his wide, glassy eyes locking onto hers, his tiny mouth still moving, the broken tune whispering up from his chest, each note sharp and wet and wrong.

She stumbled backward, her foot catching on the edge of the rocking chair, her pulse pounding in her ears as she staggered into the hallway, each breath coming in short, shallow gasps. The darkness  stretching around her, the shadows leaning in closer, the air thick and heavy and full of something that felt like teeth.

She tried not to think of it and later that night, as she lay in bed, her pulse still hammering, her mind still racing, she heard it again. That same soft, shivering hum, drifting down the hallway from the nursery, the broken notes trembling through the still, silent air. She squeezed her eyes shut, her heart jumping in her chest, the darkness pressing in around her. She knew something was wrong, he was wrong.

And then, in the silence, she heard his sharp, piercing wail, thin and jagged, crackling through the baby monitor on the nightstand. She bolted upright, her heart racing, her breath catching in her throat as she fumbled for the monitor, her fingers clumsy and shaking.

The small screen flickered to life, Isaac lay perfectly still in his crib, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths.

The monitor crackled softly, the faint, breathy sounds of the nursery filtering through the tiny speaker, the air around her felt oppressive, the darkness settling into the corners like a patient, unblinking gaze. Mara stared in disbelief at the still silent crib.

Mara tried to ignore it, convincing herself that it was all in her head. The way Isaac’s eyes tracked her, too focused, too aware for a baby his age. The way his head would tilt, his tiny ear angling toward her as if he was listening, as if he understood. The strange noises, the all consuming shadows, the way he could do things no baby his age should be able to do, it was all in her head. It had to be.

She brought it up to Daniel one morning, her voice thin and shaky as she poured his coffee, the steam rising in tight, swirling tendrils. She hesitated, her pulse ticking up, her mind racing as she watched him butter his toast, the scrape of the knife too loud in the quiet kitchen.

“He’s always watching me,” she said, her voice sounding small, even to her own ears. “Really watching.”

Daniel paused, the toast halfway to his mouth, his eyes narrowing. “He’s a baby, Mara,” he said slowly, his tone careful, the way you talk to someone on the edge of a breakdown. “He’s supposed to watch you. You’re his whole world right now.”

She opened her mouth to argue, to tell him about the way Isaac’s fingers had tightened in her hair the other night, the sharp, pulling pain of his tiny grip, the way his eyes followed her across the room, unblinking, too focused, too aware. But the words stuck in her throat, her pulse quickening, her skin prickling as she met Daniel’s steady gaze, his eyes sharp, searching her face for signs of something he didn’t want to find.

“You just need some sleep,” he said, his voice softening, his eyes flicking to the baby monitor on the counter, the small screen dark, the faint, breathy sounds of Isaac’s soft coos filtering through the tiny speaker. “We all do. It’s just the exhaustion talking.”

She forced a thin, brittle smile, her fingers tightening around the edge of the table, her nails pressing into the cool, polished wood. She felt the cold twist of dread in her chest, the tight, squeezing pressure that seemed to coil around her lungs, making it hard to breathe, her pulse hammering in her ears as she nodded, forcing herself to drop it. She had come to dread the moments Daniel would head out for work leaving her alone in the house with him. 

Later as she rocked Isaac in the nursery, the old wooden chair creaking beneath her, she felt it again. That cold, creeping dread, the sense that something was wrong, that something was watching. She looked down into his face, his wide, unblinking eyes fixed on hers, his tiny mouth slightly open, his lips twitching, his tongue flicking against his gums like he was trying to form words.

She leaned in closer, a lump in her throat, her pulse ticking up as she watched his lips move, the small, deliberate motions too precise, too knowing for a baby his size. His tiny chest rose and fell in slow, steady breaths, his dark eyes locked onto hers, his small, toothless mouth working slowly, his tongue pressing against his gums.

And then she realized he wasn’t looking at her anymore. His eyes had drifted past her shoulder, his gaze fixed on the dark corner of the nursery behind her, his tiny mouth pulling up into a slow, knowing grin, his pupils widening, his dark eyes sparkling with something like recognition.

A cold, prickling wave of fear washed over her, the fine hairs on her arms standing up, she held her breath. The room felt colder, the air tightening around her, her pulse thudding in her ears, her skin tingling.

And then, before she could turn, before she could even catch her breath, she felt a whisper, too close, too clear, the soft, shivering brush of breath against her ear.

“Mara.”

She bolted up from the chair, her heart felt like it was in her throat as she clutched Isaac to her chest, her mind reeling, the dark room pressing in around her, the air felt so heavy. She stumbled backward, her shoulder catching the doorframe, the darkened hallway stretching out behind her like a tunnel, the shadows pressing in, leaning closer, their edges sharp and jagged, hungry.

Isaac’s head snapped back to her, his dark eyes locking onto hers, his tiny lips parting, his small, toothless mouth forming the shape of her name, his voice low and hoarse, like the echo of something dark and ancient, the syllables stretched and twisted, no longer sounding human. Her name came out like a taunt, each letter drawn out, thick and wet and full of something that felt too close, too familiar, like the whispered promise of something that had been waiting a long, long time.

“Mara.”

The darkness around her seemed to close in, the air growing colder, thicker, the walls pressing in, the shadows stretching longer, their edges sharp, their whispers close. She felt the cold tighten around her, the pulse in her ears, her mind reeling as she backed away, her heart racing, her breath coming in gasps too short and sharp.

Mara stumbled down the hallway with Isaac still in her arms, the walls seeming to bend, to breathe, the air thick with the slow, suffocating grip of deep water. She reached the staircase, her fingers curling around the banister, the cool wood biting into her skin as she looked back, her pulse still thundering in her ears.

The nursery door stood open, the darkness spilling out, stretching down the hallway toward her, thick and cold, like the slow creep of a tide pulling her under. The shadows seemed to twist and breathe, their edges flickering, stretching, leaning closer, drawn to the frantic, stuttering pulse in her throat, the thin, trembling gasps that slipped past her lips.

She stumbled in a darkness that made no sense, the sun had been shining moments ago. Isaac’s voice whispered through the shadows. In her arms, his small, toothless mouth still moving, his perfect, tiny lips forming the shape of her name over and over and over again, each movement of his tongue a slow, deliberate twist, his breath warm against her collarbone.

“Mara.”

But it no longer sounded like her name. It sounded wrong, stretched and twisted, the syllables pulled tight and thin, like the snap of a tendon, the creak of old, splintering wood. It echoed down the hallway, each whisper sharp and clotted, full of something dark, something that had learned to speak by listening, by watching, by waiting. It came out broken, each letter slithering out of his small mouth with a thick, pulsing wetness, like something old and hungry choking on the shape of her name, savoring it, tasting it, rolling it around on its twisted, blackened tongue.

“Mara.”

It came again, louder this time, the sound stretching down the hallway, bending the shadows, twisting the air around her, pressing in closer, the darkness leaning in to listen, to taste, to touch. She felt the wave of terror washing over her, her pulse pounding, her breath panicked as she stumbled back, the weight of Isaac growing heavier in her arms, his tiny fingers curling against her collarbone, pressing sharply into her skin.

“Mara.”

The voice had changed, grown deeper, the vowels dragging, the consonants harsh and cruel, the syllables twisted into something that felt like a taunt, a mockery of the name she had carried her whole life, the sound of it cutting through her, sharp and cold and final. His small mouth moved with slow, deliberate precision, his lips pulling back, his tongue flicking out, tasting the air as he whispered her name, the sound of it wrapping around her like a tightening noose.

“Mara.”

She staggered down the hallway, her shoulder slamming into the wall, Isaac’s tiny fingers digging deeper into her skin, his small body pressing into her chest, the warmth of him a sharp contrast to the cold, crushing darkness that pressed in from all sides. The air around her felt heavy and cloying, clinging to her skin, each breath a shallow, panicked gasp, her mind reeling as the shadows leaned closer, their edges sharp, jagged, hungry.

She reached the staircase, her fingers curling around the banister, the cool wood biting into her palm as she looked back, her pulse still thundering in her ears. Isaac’s tiny mouth still moved against her chest, his small lips forming the shape of her name over and over and over again, each whisper a slow, deliberate twist of sound, a taunt, a promise.

“Mara.”

But it no longer sounded like her name. It sounded like something else, something twisted, something ancient, something hungry.

The darkness closed in.

The morning light filtered through the thin kitchen curtains, casting soft, warm stripes across the floor. The smell of fresh coffee hung in the air, the gentle clink of dishes and the low hum of the refrigerator filling the quiet house.

Mara sat at the kitchen table, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, her face bright, her eyes clear. She smiled down at Isaac, bouncing him gently on her knee, her fingers lightly tracing the soft curve of his tiny, perfect cheek. He gurgled in the way babies do, his dark eyes crinkling, his small, toothless mouth pulling into a wide, joyous grin as she leaned in close, her breath warm against his face.

“Who’s my sweet boy?” she cooed, her voice low, lilting, her fingers tightening just slightly against his small, round body. Isaac’s tiny hands reached up, his fingers curling around the loose strands of her hair, his grip firm, possessive, his wide, dark eyes locked onto hers. She felt his tiny nails press into her scalp, the sharp, deliberate pressure sending a small, shivering pulse of something like delight through her.

Daniel leaned against the kitchen counter, his coffee mug steaming in his hand, his eyes warm as he watched them. He smiled, his shoulders relaxing, the tight, anxious lines around his eyes softening as he watched Mara laugh, her head tipping back, her lips parting, her teeth bright and even in the soft morning light.

“See?” he said, his voice light, a hint of relief threading through the words. “You just needed some sleep.”

Mara looked up, her eyes meeting his, her smile stretching a little too big, her pupils blown wide, her gaze too sharp, too focused. She laughed again, a low, soft, musical sound, her head tipping to the side, her hair falling over her shoulder in a loose, dark wave.

“Yeah,” she said, her voice bright, her eyes never leaving his. “Just a little sleep.”

Isaac gurgled in her arms, his small, perfect mouth pulling into a slow, knowing smile, his dark eyes flicking up to meet hers, his tiny fingers still twisted in her hair, his grip tightening, his breath warm against her skin.

The morning light stretched long across the kitchen floor, the shadows leaning in, the air thick with the quiet, heavy warmth of something that had been waiting, watching, and was now, finally, satisfied.