The door closes softly behind you. Mattheo sits on the edge of the bed. He doesn’t look at you. Not once. The space between you feels wide, even in this small room.

You gently rest your hand over your belly. The flicker of movement beneath your palm is faint but undeniable.

“She knows when you’re near,” you say softly. “She moves more when you’re close. Like… like she hears you.”

You cross the room slowly, lowering yourself beside him. Close, but not too close. The tension in his body is still sharp—controlled, but just barely.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t look at you. And that silence? It tears you apart.

“I kissed him,” you admit. “And I hated myself for it the second she moved.”

Mattheo exhales hard through his nose. “She felt it,” he says quietly. “And so did I.”

Your heart pounds against your ribcage as you bite the inside of your cheek to keep steady.

“I know,” you murmur. “And I hate that she had to.”

Mattheo shakes his head slowly, finally lifting his eyes—not quite to yours, but almost.

“If you hate yourself for it, I already hated me first.”

You know why he sent you away. But it didn’t feel like safety. It felt like abandonment. It felt like being handed off.

“I didn’t need safe,” you whisper. “I needed you.”

His eyes finally meet yours. And there’s no anger left in them now…only regret.

“I need you too,” he says almost broken. “That’s why I let you go.”

“It wasn’t about Theo, Mattheo.” Your voice trembles. “It was about you not being there.”

He looks down as if ashamed. “You wanted to hurt me. And I deserved it. But it still killed me.”

“You weren’t the only one it broke,” you tell him. “I never stopped loving you. Not even when I wanted to.”

His hand lifts slowly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingertips linger just a little too long, like he’s making sure you’re real. Your eyes hold his, and you feel the pull—the gravity that never really let you go.

He kisses you, soft and slow, like a promise and an apology all at once. When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours. His voice is quieter now.

“We never talked about names. Do you have one?”

You slightly nod. “I thought about Lyra. It means light… harmony… it’s a constellation. It’s the only thing that felt untouched.”

Mattheo smiles, that rare, gentle smile that belongs only to you.

“Storm,” he adds. “Because she’s being born from one… and she’ll carry it.”

“She’s both,” you whisper. “The light and the storm. Everything we were afraid of.”

“And everything we hoped for,” he finishes.

“Lyra-Storm…” you repeat softly, your hand resting on your belly.

Mattheo places his hand on top of yours. “Riddle.”