Kurt is still out cold, eyes closed, breaths deep and even, fingers limp against the secure swaddle wrapped around their also sleeping baby. She's a surprisingly calm little thing, especially considering her circumstances—born into the harsh cold, kept inside at all hours, with only the supplies her mother is able to fashion by their own hand—but she's still a baby. She still cries at night when she's hungry or itchy or confused or needs changing, and Kurt is always right there, on a hairpin trigger, forgoing their own rest to make sure she's comfortable again.

This had been one such night—and, seeing as Miles was sleeping over, they were especially vigilant not to irritate him, staying up with her for hours before they dared closing their own eyes. But maybe they hadn't needed to be so vigilant. Miles has been...good lately. A strange sentiment. Miles is never good. But he's left them alone, left the baby alone, only coming to the cabin to feed them and hand off fabrics and soaps from the village before being on his way again. It's been weeks since the flaying, since he hacked off their hair (still short and choppy, but no longer a priority), since he terrorized them into delivery. And while that feeling lingers, it gets more and more distant every day he keeps his hands off them.

So their guard is never fully down. But, deep in sleep for the first time all day, there's little they can do. Exhausted new mothers need their rest. And since their daughter barely stirs by their side, unaware of the danger creeping up to the bed, the danger waiting outside by the wagon, they're not likely to wake anytime soon.