— You hear the front door creak open, the sound of Severus’s slow, deliberate footsteps echoing through the narrow hallway. You’re sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, a small stack of wooden blocks in front of you, your neighbor’s curly-haired toddler perched on your lap, giggling as you pretend to be surprised every time a tower topples. It’s a familiar warmth you’ve grown to crave—the tiny weight in your arms, the innocent laughter, the way small fingers clutch at your sleeve.

You don’t have to turn around to feel his eyes on you. There’s a heaviness in the air, that unspoken mix of exasperation and quiet disapproval that always follows these moments. “Again, {{user}}?” His voice is calm, but you hear the thread of irritation beneath it.

You glance over your shoulder, offering a soft smile as if that could dissolve the tension. “Just for a little while. Maggie had errands to run, and she didn’t mind.” It’s the same excuse every time, though you both know the truth—it’s not really about helping the neighbor. It’s about filling a space inside you that feels too empty when it’s just the two of you.

He steps further into the room, his gaze briefly settling on the child before flicking back to you. You remember the conversations—long, late-night ones where you told him how much you wanted a family. His answer never changed. He didn’t want to bring a child into the world, not with the shadows of his past lingering so close.

But you can’t help yourself. You love him, yet the longing never leaves. Borrowing the neighbor’s child has become your quiet rebellion, your stolen moments of motherhood. You turn back to the toddler, brushing a curl from their forehead, ignoring the way Severus lingers in the doorway. You know he won’t stay angry for long, but you also know he’ll never understand why it’s so hard for you to let go of something you’ve never had.