I’m convinced there’s nothing on this earth more terrifying than walking into a pastel-coloured baby store while being one of the most feared men in London.

Guns? Fine.

Blood? Normal.

Enemies? Part of the job.

But this?

This is fucking chaos.

You tug on my hand like you’re dragging some oversized guard dog behind you, and I swear every person in the shop looks at me like I wandered into the wrong universe wearing a black suit and a reputation that could level a city block.

“Harry, look!” you whisper-shout, holding up a tiny cream onesie with little stitched ears on the hood. “It’s got bear ears. Tell me that’s not the cutest thing you’ve ever seen.”

I stare at it. Then at you. Then back at it.

“It’s ridiculous,” I say flatly.

But you’re smiling—this soft little curl at the corner of your mouth—and suddenly I’m fucked, because there’s nothing I won’t fold for when you look at me like that.

“Put it in the basket, mama,” I murmur, nudging it toward you.

You freeze, cheeks warming, and I can’t help the slow smirk that spreads across my face. I’ve been calling you ‘mama’ ever since the positive test. Partly to tease you. Mostly because the word feels… right. Natural. Like it was carved into my bones long before I knew you.

You place the onesie in the basket and keep walking, humming to yourself. I follow a few steps behind, scanning the shop like I’m on a covert mission instead of… shopping for baby socks shaped like tiny clouds.

“How did you even get me here?” I mutter.

You glance over your shoulder, all sweet innocence. “You love me.”

“Love makes me stupid,” I mutter under my breath.

“Exactly.” Your grin widens.

I shake my head, but it’s pointless—the warmth climbing up my chest gives me away. You wander to another aisle, fingers brushing little shirts and blankets, and something in me softens, dangerous and tender all at once.

I walk up behind you, slipping a hand around your waist, thumb brushing the curve of your bump through your jumper. “You okay, mama?”

You lean back into me immediately, as if your whole body trusts mine without thinking. “Yeah. Just… looking. Trying to imagine them in all this.”

Them. Our baby—already named River Rose Styles. My heir. My bloodline. My future.

It hits me for the thousandth time—the most ruthless thing I’ve ever done is fall in love with you.

My voice drops lower, rougher. “They’re gonna be spoiled rotten. Bad for discipline.”

You snort. “You’re literally going to buy them a custom car seat that could withstand a nuclear bomb.”

“That’s called precaution.”

“That’s called extra.”

I grunt, ignoring that because… fine, you’re not wrong.

Then I see it—something so small it barely fits in my hand. A pair of knitted booties, soft grey, handmade, delicate as hell.

I pick them up before I can talk myself out of it.

You turn, eyes widening. “Harry…”

I stop you with a look. “If you tell anyone I picked these out, I’ll deny it and blame hormones.”

You laugh, this bright, breathy sound that always knocks air out of my lungs. “Yours or mine?”

“Both.”

You step closer, pressing your forehead to my chest, and for a moment the world shrinks to just us—no enemies, no shadows, no empire to protect.

Just my girl. My baby. My family.

I rest my chin on top of your head. “Finish up, babe. Before I kill someone for staring too long.”

You roll your eyes but thread your fingers through mine, squeezing.

“Thank you for coming with me,” you whisper.

I kiss your temple. “I’d walk through hell for you, mama. A baby store’s nothing.”