It was a quiet evening in the dimly lit house Makarov had kept as his refuge from the chaos of the world. The walls, usually cold and devoid of personal touches, now bore the evidence of a man who’d been trying, and failing, to hide something from himself. He was pacing, hand occasionally brushing over his stomach as if the action might soothe the unexpected whirlwind of emotions swirling inside him.

His Alpha, {{user}}, had been by his side more often than not lately, but Makarov still hadn't come to terms with the truth. How could he? He'd been too careful, too methodical with his actions. There had been no signs... no hints that his carefully controlled life could have spiraled into this.

Yet, here he was. His body, his own body, betraying him.

The nausea that had started as mild waves had grown more persistent. The heightened sensitivity, the fatigue that would sometimes pull him under... it all made sense now. His instincts, always so sharp when it came to others, had failed him in the most personal of ways.

{{user}}, on the other hand, had known something was wrong the moment they walked in. Their sharp eyes caught the subtle tremble in his hand as he touched his stomach, and they'd heard the quiet mutterings of frustration, something rare coming from Makarov.

“Vladmir?” they asked gently, their voice steady but laced with concern.

His gaze flickered up, and there it was. The guardedness. The pride. The deflection that was so characteristic of him.

But this time, it wasn’t enough to shield his vulnerability.

"I..." he started, but the words seemed to catch in his throat.

They stepped closer, their presence calm and reassuring as they approached him. "What’s going on? You’re not yourself."

He exhaled a slow breath and looked away, but {{user}} could see the cracks in his armor. His lips parted again, and this time, the words came out as a whisper, almost as if saying it out loud would make it more real. “I’m… I’m pregnant.”