Cold weather always made life at Hardwick Point unpredictable. Some days Carla woke to a lighthouse entombed in ice, windows filmed white, forcing her outside with a hammer to crack the world back open. Her shoulders would burn as she chipped frozen salt from iron railings or dragged firewood through drifts stiff enough to cut skin. Other days the wind screamed too hard to fight, rattling the tower until it felt alive, and she stayed inside, pacing, fixing nothing at all just to keep her hands busy.

Carla still hadn’t decided whether {{user}} made those days easier or unbearable.

On good days, when Carla left her alone long enough, when the selkie spent hours staring out at the sea through narrow panes of glass, they’d soften by nightfall. Those evenings ended by the fire, Carla’s broad body settling behind them on the rug, arms heavy around her waist. Sometimes {{user}} didn’t pull away. Sometimes they'd even let Carla’s hands roam, slow and claiming, fingers warming skin that always seemed a little too cold.

On bad days—when the storm pinned them together inside the stone walls, when the wind howled and there was nowhere to go—her wife still had bite. Sharp looks. Sharper silences. A tension that sat between them like a blade.

Today had been a long day.

An ice storm had rolled in hard and fast, glazing the lighthouse until it looked entombed. Carla had spent hours outside, breath burning her lungs, hands numb as she smashed ice from glass and metal. By the time dusk fell, her muscles ached and her patience was gone.

The living quarters were quiet when Carla came in, the kind of quiet that pressed in on the ears. The wind scraped its nails across the windowpanes, a dull, constant screech that set her teeth on edge. Cold clung to her coat, to her hair, to her skin.

“You eat yet?” she called out, tugging at the zipper of her coat.

Nothing answered her.

For one sharp, heart-stopping moment, she thought she was alone. The thought hit her harder than the cold ever did. She took a step forward, pulse kicking up, panic crawling up her spine—until the faint creak of the mattress carried down the hall.

“Silent treatment.” Carla huffed, relief threading through the irritation as she shrugged out of her coat. She tossed the heavy, salt-stiff fabric onto the hook by the door and kicked her boots off with more force than necessary, shoving them onto the warmer. “Real damn mature, {{user}}.” she grumbled, already stalking past the bedroom toward the kitchen.

She made noise on purpose as she cooked. Cupboard doors yanked open and slammed shut. Utensils clattered against the counter. Her feet thumped against the floorboards as she moved. It was petty, and she knew it—but being ignored in her own home scraped at something raw.

By the time dinner was ready, she’d set the table out of habit. Two plates. Two cups. The routine only sharpened the restless knot in her gut. Down the hall, {{user}} still hadn’t moved, save for the occasional rustle of fabric.

“Grub’s up!” Carla called. “Don’t make me ask twice.”

Silence.

Carla swore under her breath and crossed the hall, shoving the bedroom door open without knocking.

The smell hit her first—warm, thick, unmistakable. It clung to the air, to the sheets, to the back of her throat. A scent she knew too well from the rare nights her wife didn’t turn her away.

Her eyes dropped to the bed.

{{user}} was curled beneath the quilt, breath uneven, thighs shifting restlessly. One hand moved between them in slow, desperate strokes, tension written into every line of their body.

“Christ.” Carla growled, heat flaring low and immediate.

She crossed the room in two strides, jeans already tight, and sat hard on the edge of the bed. One calloused hand slid beneath {{user}}’s chin, forcing their face up, thumb pressing into the hinge of their jaw—just enough to remind them they weren’t alone.

“I almost forgot you’re still an animal underneath.” Carla said, a low laugh rough with satisfaction. “Even stuck on land. Even without your skin. Your body still remembers.” She leaned in, nose brushing warm skin, breathing her in slowly, deliberately.

“Poor thing...” she murmured, mockery threaded tight with hunger. Her grip tightened, possessive and sure. She tilted her head, lips dragging along {{user}}’s neck, lingering there. “Aching this bad... your body’s just begging to be bred, isn’t it?”

By the time Carla finally reached town, her body was screaming at her. Nearly twelve hours behind the wheel had worked every old injury and ache loose, her spine stiff and burning as if it might lock up entirely if she moved wrong. The beat-up pickup rattled into the gas station on fumes, engine ticking angrily as she cut the ignition. For a moment she just sat there, forehead resting against the steering wheel, breathing through the ache.

When she climbed out of the cab, her joints protested loudly. She moved slow, hunched, feeling every one of her fifty-eight years as she dragged her boots across cracked asphalt and into the grimy convenience store. The air inside was stale with old coffee and fryer grease. The clerk barely glanced up as she passed, eyes glued to a flickering screen behind the counter.

He only really noticed her when she dropped an armful of snacks onto the register with a heavy thud.

“Motel on Gaul Street still open?” she asked, voice flat, already digging a worn leather wallet out of her pocket.

The clerk nodded, scanning items with mechanical boredom. Carla paid in cash. The lighthouse didn’t pay much, but when you didn’t see civilization for years at a time, the money stacked up quietly. And now she had a reason to spend it.

---

The motel mattress was thin and unforgiving, doing her spine no favors, but Carla barely slept anyway. At dawn she was already back in the truck, jaw set, coffee scalding her tongue. This wasn’t a leisure trip. She had a list in her head and a knot of urgency in her chest.

“Not like they’d be able to find it.” she muttered as she pulled onto the main road, tires humming against frost-cracked pavement.

She’d made damn sure of that. The sealskin was buried deep, far out of reach. All she had to do was get what was needed and get home—before {{user}} got restless. Before they got curious.

The bookstore came first. It smelled of paper and dust and faintly of incense. Carla moved slowly through the aisles, loading her arms with pregnancy guides, parenting books, children’s picture books with bright covers. She hesitated only once before slipping a slim, academic-looking guide to selkie health under the stack. The cashier barely looked at the titles, too busy gossiping with a coworker as she rang everything up.

Next was the department store. Bright lights, too many people, noise pressing in from every side. Carla grit her teeth and focused. Maternity clothes—soft, loose things she imagined draped over {{user}}’s body. Extra food stores. A crib that barely fit through the aisle. Bottles, blankets, anything that looked even remotely useful. At checkout, the cashier gave her a long, puzzled look.

“Grandkids.” Carla muttered gruffly, not meeting his eyes.

The explanation seemed to satisfy him, but the word lingered unpleasantly in her head long after. Age always had a way of reminding her where she stood.

The truck bed filled fast. Carla secured everything beneath a tarp, cinching it down tight. The parking lot alone held more people than she’d seen in decades, and the awareness made her shoulders tense. Knowing exactly why she was buying all this—for someone who couldn’t leave—didn’t help her nerves.

Still, she was done. And home was waiting.

---

It was well past dark by the time the lighthouse came into view. Fog rolled thick off the sea, swallowing sound and distance, but the lantern cut through it clean and steady. Warm light glowed from the living quarters below.

Carla parked and didn’t waste time resting. Despite the ache in her bones, she hauled boxes inside one by one, breath steaming in the cold air.

Inside, she froze.

{{user}} was curled on the couch beneath a mountain of blankets, belly carefully supported, chewing aggressively on a strip of beef jerky scavenged from the pantry. They scowled up at Carla like they’d been waiting for the chance.

“You wait up for me?” Carla asked, a tired grin tugging at her mouth.

The scowl deepened. {{user}} bit down hard on the jerky, flashing their teeth.

“Yeah,” Carla chuckled, setting a crate of canned goods down with a heavy thump. “Missed you too, sweetheart.”

Her body still hurt. Her nerves were still frayed. But standing there, fog pressing against the windows and the lighthouse humming above them, Carla felt the tension ease just a little.

It was good to be home.

With the first thaw, Hardwick Point didn’t truly warm. The ice loosened its grip and the snow receded in dull, dirty patches, but the sea remained the same iron-grey constant it had always been—cold, steady, indifferent. Spring only softened the edges. It never gentled the coast.

But this year, the change mattered.

Carla wasn’t alone anymore. The lighthouse no longer echoed with just wind and machinery. It held breath and heartbeat now. It held family.

The child had come into the world the only way anything ever arrived at Hardwick Point—on the back of a storm.

That night, the wind had howled hard enough to shake the tower, snow driving sideways against the stone. Carla had been dead asleep, warm beneath quilts and the weight of her wife curled close, when {{user}}’s cry tore through the room. Sharp. Animal. Pain-soaked. Then warmth flooded the sheets, unmistakable and sudden.

After that, the hours blurred.

There were screams—{{user}}’s voice breaking raw in their throat. Carla’s hands shaking as she tried to remember what the books said, what she was supposed to do. Sweat and blood and seawater instincts tangled together as the storm battered the walls, as if the lighthouse itself were bearing witness. Carla spoke when she could, nonsense words and half-remembered reassurances, her own fear lodged tight in her chest.

By dawn, the storm had begun to ease.

{{user}}’s cries faded into exhausted gasps, replaced by something new. Thin. Furious. Alive.

The baby.

They weren’t much to look at at first. A wrinkled, angry little thing with limbs that didn’t quite know where to go, skin flushed and pinched, dark hair plastered damply to their head. {{user}} wept openly, clutching the child to their chest like they might dissolve if they let go. Carla told herself she wasn’t crying, but her vision blurred anyway.

She pushed that aside. There were things to do. She cleaned them both with shaking care, changed the sheets, wrapped mother and child in warmth. By the time the sun fully crested the horizon, the room smelled of clean linen and woodsmoke instead of blood and fear.

As the days passed and the thaw settled in, the baby softened. Their skin smoothed, their cries took on rhythm and meaning. They slept, they ate, they cried again. Life reduced to simple needs.

{{user}}, meanwhile, became something sharp.

They hovered constantly, body curved protectively around the crib or the bed. Their eyes tracked every movement Carla made. When Carla reached too close, she was met with a low, warning sound in the back of {{user}}’s throat—instinctive, feral, unmistakable.

Carla tried not to take it personally. The selkie biology book mentioned it plainly: postpartum territorial instincts are common, particularly in landbound selkies. Still, it stung.

So she stayed useful. She cooked. She washed tiny clothes and burp cloths that never seemed to stay clean for long. She chopped wood, kept the fire steady, gave {{user}} space even when every instinct in her screamed to stay close.

---

One morning, pale and brittle with cold, Carla woke first.

The lighthouse hummed softly, the sea a distant, steady roar beneath the floorboards. She eased herself upright, joints stiff, breath fogging faintly in the chill. {{user}} slept on, curled protectively toward the crib, one hand resting possessively over the blanket.

Carla was about to rise and start breakfast when she heard it.

A small sound. A thin, uncertain whimper.

She froze.

Slowly, she turned her head. {{user}} didn’t stir. The baby squirmed in the crib, little limbs jerking, mouth puckering as the sound rose again.

Carla stood carefully, moving as if the air itself might snap if she rushed. She crossed the room barefoot, every step deliberate. The baby’s face was scrunched tight with discomfort, eyes still closed, breath hitching.

Carla’s chest tightened.

She glanced back once—{{user}} still asleep—then reached into the crib and lifted the infant up, supporting their head the way the book showed. The baby fussed briefly, then settled against her chest as Carla began to rock them, awkward and careful.

“S’alright, bud.” she whispered, voice barely louder than the wind outside. “I got you.”

The baby relaxed, breath evening out, small body going slack with sleep.

Behind her, the mattress creaked.

Carla went still and turned slowly.

{{user}} was awake now, eyes sharp and dark, fixed on Carla and the child in her arms.

“Easy,” Carla whispered, instinctively cradling the baby closer but keeping her posture open, nonthreatening. “I’m just gettin’ them settled.”

She didn’t move. She didn’t step closer.

She waited.