Milk for a baby

Evan jolted awake to a cold slap of air and a smell that hit like a brick—damp straw, sour sweat, and a whiff of something sharp, like wet iron left to rust. His eyes cracked open, gummy and stinging, letting in a gray smear of light that burned his skull. He blinked, fast and sloppy, trying to clear the haze, but his head wouldn't move—just flopped sideways, heavy and useless. Panic spiked, sharp and hot, and he tried to sit up, to shove himself upright, but his arms twitched and collapsed, little sticks that wouldn't hold. A sound slipped out—a thin, reedy whine—and he snapped his mouth shut, swallowing it down. He wasn't about to start crying, not again.

The room swam into focus, rough-edged and close. Mud walls curved up around him, patched with clumps that looked ready to fall, meeting a low roof of straw and wood, streaked with damp from the night's storm. A narrow slit of a window cut into one side, spilling weak morning light—pale, watery, nothing like the buzz of London's streetlamps. He was pinned under something warm, a weight that pressed him into a prickly bed of straw. It shifted, breathing slow and deep, and he caught the scent—sweat, blood, a faint tang of metal. Mira, he remembered, the woman who'd held him through the screaming chaos of last night. His mum, they'd called her, but the word stuck in his throat, a glitch he couldn't process. His real mum was back home, gray-haired and sharp-tongued, not this stranger with hands like leather.

He squirmed, testing the edges of her grip, but her arm stayed slung over him, loose yet firm, trapping him against her chest. Her heartbeat thudded under his ear, a steady thump-thump that vibrated through him, and he froze, holding his breath. Don't wake her—not yet. He needed a minute, just one damn minute, to untangle this nightmare without her staring at him like he belonged here. His eyes darted around, piecing together the cramped space: a wobbly table shoved against the wall, a clay jug glinting with dew, a dead oil lamp tipped over like it'd given up. Puddles shimmered on the dirt floor, leftovers from the rain, and the air bit at his face, cold enough to make his skin prickle. This wasn't his flat—no glow of a router, no hum of a fridge—just a raw, earthy box that smelled of mud and toil.

His mind spun, clawing at the edges of what he knew. He'd been in London—data center, storm, lightning frying him like a cheap circuit. The surge had hit hard, white-hot through his chest, and he'd seen code streaming past—green on black, sharp and clean—before the dark swallowed him. Then he'd woken here, screaming into this mess, a body too small to hold him. Evan Holt, 32, IT guy with a knack for fixing what broke, now stuck in this—whatever this was. A baby, sure, but his head wasn't, and that clash gnawed at him, sharp and relentless. He didn't belong here, didn't fit, but the weight of her arm and the ache in his bones said otherwise.

Mira stirred, a low groan rumbling out as she shifted onto her back. Her arm slid off, letting cold rush in, and Evan shivered, a full-body shake that made him clench his jaw—if he'd had teeth to clench. She rubbed her face, hands scraping over her skin, and sat up slow, the straw crunching under her weight. Her hair fell in a sweaty tangle, dark strands sticking to her cheeks, and she glanced down at him, eyes bleary but piercing, like she could see right through him. "Morning, Ryn," she said, voice hoarse, scraped raw from the night. She scooped him up, one arm sliding under his back, and pulled him close, the heat of her cutting through the chill like a blade.

He stiffened, caught off guard by the sudden grab, and kicked out—a weak, floppy swipe that barely nudged the blanket. She didn't flinch, just settled him higher, her chest thudding against his ear. His stomach twisted, a hollow pang that came out of nowhere, sharp and insistent. Hungry? Already? He didn't want it—didn't want to need her, this woman he didn't know—but his body didn't care, clenching tighter until a whimper slipped free. He bit it back, furious, but she shifted, tugging at her shirt with a practiced move, and warmth hit his mouth—sweet, thick, nothing like the stale energy drinks he'd lived on back home.

His throat worked, swallowing before he could stop it, and he hated how it felt—good, warm, easing the ache like a fix he didn't ask for. He wasn't a baby—not in his head, not where it mattered—but his mouth kept moving, greedy and automatic, and she held him steady, rocking him like it was nothing. He tried to pull away, to turn his head, but his neck wouldn't hold, just lolled against her, and the taste kept coming, pulling him under. His hands clenched, tiny fists trembling, and he glared up at her, eyes narrowing to slits. She didn't notice, just wiped a dribble from his chin with her thumb, rough skin brushing his face.

"Look at you," she murmured, voice soft now, a crack in the roughness. "Already fighting me." She laughed—a short, tired sound that vibrated through him—and shifted him in her lap, adjusting the blanket around his shoulders. He scowled, face scrunching until it hurt, and she laughed again, louder this time, like he'd told a joke. He hadn't—he was 32, damn it, not some squalling kid—but his body betrayed him, sucking down the milk. She stood, cradling him against her shoulder, and shuffled toward the forge room, the air warming as they crossed the threshold. The forge glowed a dull red, coals hissing under a fresh log, and the air thickened with smoke and the tang of metal. Gav wasn't up yet—just a snore rumbling from the workbench where he'd sprawled—and the room felt still, heavy with the quiet of a house not fully awake. Mira set him down on a folded blanket by the table, propping him against a sack of grain, and he slumped there, head lolling as he fought to hold it up. His eyes darted around, taking in the rough walls, the tools scattered on the workbench, the puddle by the door where the storm had leaked in. This wasn't his world—no screens, no cables, just mud and straw and a woman who thought he was hers.

She moved to the kettle, hanging over the forge, and poked at it, muttering about milk and water. "Gav'll be up soon," she said, more to herself than him, and poured a splash into a clay cup, testing it with her finger. "Not too hot—good." She turned back, kneeling beside him, and lifted him again, settling him in the crook of her arm. The milk came next, a trickle she guided to his mouth, and he stiffened, resisting, but his throat swallowed anyway, the warmth spreading through him like a tide he couldn't stop. He glared at her, eyes burning, but she just hummed—a low, rough tune that vibrated through her chest—and kept going, steady as stone.

His stomach settled, the ache fading, and he hated how it calmed him, how his body leaned into her despite the storm in his head. He'd fixed networks, driven through floods, lived a life that didn't bend—and now he was this, small and soft, caught in her arms like he'd never been anything else. The room lightened, gray turning silver through the window, and the village stirred outside—dogs yapping, a rooster crowing sharp and loud. Mira shifted him higher, wiping his face with a corner of the blanket, and her eyes met his, fierce and tired and something else he couldn't name.

"You're mine, Ryn," she said, quiet but firm, like a nail driven home. "Storm or no storm, you're here now." She set him back on the blanket, propping him up, and stood, brushing her hands on her skirt. He stared after her, chest tight, the name—Ryn—ringing in his ears like a glitch he couldn't debug. Evan Holt didn't fit here, not in this muddy hole with a woman who didn't know him, but her words stuck, heavy and real, and the day rolled on, dragging him with it.