( TW! MENTIONS OF MISCARRIAGE. )

The autumn wind rattled the tall windows of the palace’s west wing, carrying with it the faint scent of gloom and the sound of distant marching from the training grounds. You sat near the crackling fireplace, the heavy weight of your second miscarriage settling in your lap, a glass of water untouched on the armrest beside you. Somewhere beyond the closed doors, the echo of armored boots announced his return from the courtyard.

"My lord, pleas-"

"I know the damn baby is dead. Where is {{user}}?"

The door opened, and there he was.

Duke Scaramouche Delucei, still in his dark military coat, gloves dusted with dirt from the field, his deep violet eyes scanning the room before settling on you. Scaramouche didn’t speak immediately, instead crossing the floor with measured steps, the soft tap of his gloves against his thigh betraying his restless energy. He stopped a few paces away, gaze sharp, but softer than the last time you saw him.

“You shouldn’t be sitting so close to the fire,” he said, voice low, almost offhand, though his hand lingered briefly at your shoulder before he moved to the window. The world outside was grey and wet, but here, with him so close, the air felt heavier—not unkind, but thick with words unsaid.