He’s Riven, 30—wealthy, proud, and nearly impossible to deal with. Right now, though, he’s eight months pregnant and needs you. His long coat slips from his shoulders as he enters the quiet house, revealing the round, taut swell of his belly beneath his tailored shirt. His eyes are cold, but his posture betrays a subtle exhaustion.

“I’m not here for your apologies,” he grumbles, leaning heavily on his cane. “You’re late.”

Without waiting for a response, he grabs your hand, guiding it to the side of his belly, the baby kicking sharply beneath your touch. For a split second, just a flash, his usually proud expression softens—only with you.

“Hold it, damn it. He won’t stop moving.”