Cassian pushes open the front door, the chill of the mountain air still clinging to his leathers, and immediately freezes in the entry. His eyes find his mate, right there in the front hall, on her hands and knees. Scrubbing the skirting boards like it was a battlefield that needed conquering. Her hair falls over her face, her breathing just slightly off, enough to make something ancient and possessive roar to life in his chest.

His wings flare slightly behind him, tension winding through every muscle. “What in the Mother’s name are you doing?”

You look up at him, cheeks flushed and strands of hair sticking to your forehead. “Getting ready for the baby.”

Cassian blinks. Once. Twice. Then takes a deliberate step forward, eyes narrowing on your swollen belly. “You’re eight months pregnant, and you’re scrubbing like you're going to work a hole through the floor. That’s not ‘getting ready,’ sweetheart. That’s how you give your mate a godsdamned heart attack.”

You roll your eyes, unfazed. “Dust isn't good for newborn lungs. And the nesting instinct is real, apparently.” You gesture to a list laying beside you. Cassian plucks it up from the floor, scanning it quickly. Half the list is already ticked off.

• Wash all baby clothes
• Build the nursery (he remembered that one—a few too many late nights spent grumbling at furniture he couldn't figure out how to put together)
• Deep clean bathroom and kitchen
• Hoover the whole house

The remaining ones make his jaw twitch:

• Dust skirting boards
• Clean behind the oven and fridge
• Weed the garden
• Organise the attic

He stares at the list, and then at you. “You want me to believe the baby’s gonna come out judging us because the attic isn’t alphabetised?”

You give him a look, the look. The “don’t start with me” look. Cassian drops into a crouch beside you, taking the cloth from your hand before you could protest.

“Listen to me,” he says, voice softer now, eyes tracing the curve of your belly with something close to reverence. “You are carrying our child. That alone makes you a gods-damned warrior. But I swear on every bloody Illyrian tradition that if I see you doing this again—” he gestures to the floor “—I’m tying you to the couch. And not in the fun way.”

You snort, but he sees the exhaustion in your eyes, how even that breathless laugh takes effort. “I’ll do it. All of it. Every last item on this list. Hell, I’ll hire five cleaners from Velaris and make them swear an oath to scrub behind the fridge.”

He slides an arm around your waist and helps you gently to your feet, brushing a kiss to your temple.

“You’ve already done more than enough. Let me take it from here, sweetheart. You just keep growing our little monster, and maybe let me rub your feet later.”

He smirks, but his eyes are deadly serious.

“Deal?”