Eric's POV
I sat on the cave floor, my back against the cold stone wall, watching Sofia sleep. The fire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows on the walls. I had been sitting there for hours, lost in thought, trying to process everything that had happened.
Last night's incident with the journal still lingered in my mind. I had been furious with Sofia for reading my private thoughts, but a part of me had been relieved that she had finally seen a glimpse of my vulnerability.
As I sat there, I couldn't help but notice the way Sofia's hair fell across her face, the way her chest rose and fell with each breath. She was beautiful, and I couldn't deny the attraction I felt towards her.
But I had to push those feelings aside. I couldn't afford to let my emotions get the better of me. Not now, not ever.
Sofia stirred, and I looked away, trying to compose myself. She sat up, rubbing her eyes, and looked around the cave. "Morning," she said, smiling at me.
I grunted, trying to maintain my usual cold demeanor. "Morning," I replied, not looking at her.
Sofia seemed to sense the tension between us, but she didn't push the issue. Instead, she got up and began to tend to the baby, cooing softly as she changed her diaper.
I watched them, feeling a pang of... something. I didn't know what it was, but it felt like a mix of emotions: guilt, regret, longing.
As Sofia finished up with the baby, she looked over at me, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "You're always so serious, Eric," she said, teasingly. "Can't you just smile for once?"
"There's nothing to smile about" I responded
Sofia's smile faltered for a moment, and she looked at me with a hint of sadness. "I suppose not," she said quietly. "But sometimes, even in the darkest times, there's something to be grateful for."
I raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite myself. "Like what?" I asked, my voice a little softer.
Sofia looked down at the baby, who was sleeping peacefully in her arms. "Like her," she said, smiling gently. "Like the fact that we're still alive, and we have each other."
I felt a pang in my chest, and I looked away, trying to process my emotions. Sofia's words had struck a chord, and for a moment, I felt a glimmer of hope.
But I pushed it aside, reminding myself that hope was a luxury we couldn't afford. Not yet, anyway.
"Let's just focus on surviving," I said, my voice rougher than I intended.
Sofia looked up at me, her eyes searching. But she didn't push the issue. Instead, she nodded quietly and looked back down at the baby.
The silence between us was palpable, but for once, it didn't feel oppressive. It felt... contemplative. Like we were both thinking about the same thing, but didn't need to say it out loud.
I'll make the changes.
As Sofia looked down at the baby, I couldn't help but notice the way her hair fell across her face. It was a small, intimate moment, and I felt a pang of... something. I wasn't sure what.
Sofia looked up, catching my gaze. For a moment, we just stared at each other. Then, Sofia smiled softly and looked away.
I cleared my throat, trying to break the tension. "Let's get something for breakfast started," I said.
**********
As we sat down to eat our simple breakfast, Sofia chattered on about the baby's latest coos and giggles. I listened, nodding occasionally, trying to appear interested.
Sofia didn't seem to notice my reserved demeanor. She was too busy smiling at the baby, who was watching her with wide, curious eyes.
After breakfast, Sofia turned to me with a mischievous grin. "Hey, Eric, have you thought about the baby's name yet?" she asked, her eyes sparkling.
I raised an eyebrow, taken aback by the question. "I hadn't really thought about it," I admitted.
Sofia's face lit up. "Oh, I've been thinking about it nonstop! I have a few ideas. What do you think of 'Ava' or 'Lily'?"
I shook my head.
Sofia nodded thoughtfully. "Okay, how about 'Remi' or 'Indie'? Or maybe something a bit more unique, like 'Clio' or 'Lylah'?"
I hesitated.
Sofia continued, "I've also thought about 'Vesper', 'Ophelia', or 'Piper'. Do any of those stand out to you?"
I shook my head again.
Sofia's eyes sparkled with excitement. "I know! Let me think... Ah, I'll get it eventually!"
I smiled slightly, watching Sofia's enthusiasm. Then, I said, "Refugia. I'm giving her this name because... Refugia, it's because of her birth."
Sofia's eyes widened in surprise, and she frowned slightly. "Refugia... how do you pronounce that again?"
I chuckled. "Re-fu-gia."
Sofia's face lit up with understanding, and she nodded enthusiastically. "I love it!"
Re-fu-gia," she repeated, the name rolling off her tongue like a new song.
"It's perfect. It's so... full of hope." She reached down and gently took the baby's tiny hand in hers, her thumb stroking the soft skin.
"Refugia, my little Refugia," she whispered, her eyes fixed on the small, sleeping form she cradled in her arms.
A peaceful silence settled between us, broken only by the baby's soft, steady breathing.
Sofia's touch was grounding, her unwavering support a steady anchor in the sea of our harsh reality. I looked at her, truly looked at her, and saw the depth of her compassion for this child we had found.
The next few days were a blur of fortifying our shelter and scavenging for supplies. Refugia became the center of our universe, her every yawn and gurgle a monumental event. But as the initial whirlwind settled, a new reality began to dawn on us.
The challenges of caring for an infant were relentless. Sleep became a luxury, and our conversations, once filled with strategies for survival, were now punctuated by discussions of finding clean water and a constant search for anything that could serve as a bottle.
One evening, as Refugia finally drifted off to sleep, snuggled in Sofia's arms, I found Sofia staring into the flickering glow of our salvaged lantern. She looked exhausted, a shadow of her former vibrant self. I sat down on a crate next to her.
"You okay?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
She sighed, leaning her head against the wall behind her. "I'm just tired," she admitted, her voice thick with emotion.
"I feel like I'm not doing enough. I feel like I'm failing her."
My heart ached for her. I knew the feeling well—the weight of expectations, the fear of not being good enough in this world.
"Hey," I said, my voice gentle but firm. "You're doing amazing. We both are. This is new for us. We're a team, right?"
A small, weary smile touched her lips. "A team," she repeated, a glimmer of her old self returning. She looked down at the baby in her arms, a loving, proud expression on her face. "Yeah," she said, her voice stronger now. "A team. For Refugia.