"Es... if you knew... if you only knew how much you an to us," he said, his voice breaking. "We don’t want to lose you. I just..." He trailed off, unable to find the words, as he closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against hers.
And in that mont, Es’s fear began to ease. She had co ho, and the warmth of Ray’s touch, the urgency in his eyes—it was enough to remind her that, no matter her doubts, her place was here. And these brothers, even in their anger and hurt, were hers.
Es looked up at Ray with wide, innocent eyes, her lips twitching in amusent, barely able to hold back a smile. Finally, her resolve broke, and a playful grin spread across her face as she teased, "Yes, Ray, it hurts so much," she whined, feigning a pout and lowering her head dramatically. "Look, look at this wound. You’ve hurt so terribly." She sniffed, glancing up at him with an exaggerated look of betrayal.
Ray’s eyes widened in shock at first, but then realization dawned on him. "You little—" He cut himself off with a grin, his exasperation quickly turning into playful retaliation. "You’re faking it, aren’t you?" Without warning, he reached out and gave her a gentle, teasing smack on her arm.
Es, quick to play along, gasped in faux agony. "Ouch! Ouch!" she cried, putting a hand to her forehead like an actress in a tragic play. "Ray, why are you hitting like this? It hurts so much! My poor head!" She let out a lodramatic groan, wincing and cradling her arm as if he’d just wounded her beyond repair.
Ray’s face went from guilt to utter disbelief as he realized she was milking it for all it was worth. "Oh really? You’re going to act like that now?" His brows arched as he leaned forward, his hands on his hips. "After I just apologized, here you go, making a whole scene out of it," he said with a smirk.
Es wasn’t done yet, though. "Well, you know, I was just standing here, minding my own business, and then bam! My husband hits with a pillow and a vase. And now, I can’t even complain about my own injuries!" She clutched her chest, as if the scandal of it all was too much for her. "Oh, the injustice of it all. Who will hear my cries?" she said, her eyes gleaming with mischief.
Ray groaned, but he couldn’t hide the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Alright, that’s it," he said, reaching for her ear playfully. He gave it a gentle tug, but enough to make her squeal with laughter.
"Ouch, ouch!" she yelped, laughing even as she pretended to be in terrible pain. "Okay, okay, I’ll admit it!" She put her hands up in surrender, giggling. "I was the one who, uh, accidentally hurt myself," she confessed, batting her eyelashes with an innocent look that fooled absolutely no one.
Ray let go of her ear, shaking his head with mock sternness. "You are unbelievable, Es." He couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him as he watched her cradling her "wounded" arm, still smiling up at him.
"Yes, yes, I am," Es replied with a cheeky smile. "But isn’t that why you love ?"
Ray’s face flushed a deep shade of pink at Es’s words, but he stayed silent, looking away as if trying to hide his reaction. From that day onward, sothing shifted in the rhythm of their ho, a subtle but warm change that spoke volus even in its quietness.
Es began returning ho earlier from work, carving out ti for routines that had beco almost sacred to her. The first thing she did upon arriving was to take a long, hot bath. She didn’t want to bring any trace of the city gri, the stale scent of cigarettes, or the chanical residue from her workday into their shared space. She was ticulous about washing it all away, scrubbing off any lingering scent that might be harmful or unclean. To Es, this was more than just hygiene—it was an act of care for Ray and their unborn child.
Through quiet conversations with Ryan, Es learned more about the child Ray carried. The baby was both strong and fragile in a way she hadn’t anticipated. Spirit-bearer pregnancies, she learned, were rare and often fraught with risk. Many children conceived between spirit-bearers didn’t make it to five months. But once that milestone was reached, the chances of survival grew significantly. It made every mont, every little precaution, feel that much more important.
As her daily rituals continued, Es noticed a peculiar thing: Ray had developed a strong aversion to food prepared by their cook. No matter how many different cooks she hired, none seed to satisfy Ray’s newfound, sotis finicky appetite. It was only when Es began cooking herself that Ray started to enjoy his als again. A warm, comforting feeling filled her heart each ti Ray cleared his plate, sotis murmuring contentedly as if the child was expressing approval. "Mother," she’d imagine the little voice saying, "you really know how to make food that feels like ho."
So, Es adjusted her routine. Each evening after her bath, she went to the kitchen, preparing a al with care and love. She started waking up in the stillness of early morning, around 3 a.m., quietly chopping vegetables, kneading dough, and simring ingredients while the world outside still slept. She prepared snacks and breakfast so Ray and the others would wake to the sll of a ho-cooked al. She wanted Ray to feel cared for, cherished, and most importantly, comfortable in this delicate stage of their lives.
But it wasn’t just food. Ray had been struggling with aching, heavy legs ever since the pregnancy began. No matter how he positioned himself, a strange tightness would creep into his calves, often waking him with uncomfortable cramps in the middle of the night. Without hesitation, Es added another ritual to her day.
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