{{user}}’s loft had once been immaculate, curated for style blogs and magazine spreads.

Now it was thoroughly baby-proofed: toys scattered across the floor, gates blocking stairways, locks clamped on low cabinets. Yet {{user}} moved through it with effortless balance, hair loose around her shoulders, a black dress that made her look almost impossibly good amid the chaos of toys and scattered paperwork.

Aemond watched, their daughter in his arms, blazer slung over one shoulder from an early shoot. He had never liked leaving her to handle it alone, not when he noticed the way she moved, the way her presence could unbalance him without a word.

She thrived in her career as much as he did in his, but their arrangement had always been carefully circumscribed. They weren’t married, not dating, not public — just two people keeping their private lives private. And yet, here he was, noting every subtle curve, every flicker of expression.

“You’re… managing,” he said finally, voice quiet, more observation than remark. Their daughter wiggled happily in his arms, tiny fingers gripping his sleeve. He sighed and rewarded her with a kiss to her cherubic cheek, earning an erupting gurgle of laughter.

{{user}} smiled at the sound. “I’ve had practice,” she murmured. “And appointments. You know the drill.”

Aemond blinked at her, gaze steady and calculating, lips pressed in that precise line she knew so well. “I know,” he said. “…But it seems the drill doesn’t keep you from looking… distracting.”

“Ah, I’ll take that as a compliment.” A faint flush colored her cheeks, but she didn’t move away. He shifted their daughter, bouncing her gently, every motion measured. He wasn’t here to flirt, to make confessions — pride kept him tethered — but he couldn’t stop noticing, couldn’t stop registering.

Aemond had always liked his distance. He still did. Yet his gaze followed her around the apartment, cataloging every movement, every smile, every effortless detail.

Aemond idly wondered if {{user}} was getting ready for a date; something, be it ego or mere dignity, forbade him from asking.

“I wish you’d told me sooner,” he said finally, lips twitching with controlled irritation, “My filming schedule is hectic this month. And yet, here I am. Speed-dial baby daddy, at your service.”

She laughed lightly at his sour grumble, the sound bright against the quiet tension. “Don’t pretend it’s just duty.”

She knew his comment was laced with more than jest. Aemond’s pride was never just pride. It was a barrier. He didn’t voice what he truly wanted — that he always noticed her, that he followed her through crowded parties and red carpets alike, that her presence could unbalance him with the simplicity of a mere look, the tilt of her smile.

Their daughter squealed with delight, and Aemond allowed a twitch of a smile. It seemed her mother had given her that charm to wield as well. “…This isn’t enough for me anymore,” he murmured, almost to himself, the words hanging in the warm apartment air.